‘The dummy silencer,’ repeated Chris. ‘Where d’you say it was?’
‘All right, I’ll tell you. For Chrissake, call off that fucking dog!’
‘That’s better.’ Without undue haste, Chris removed his foot. ‘Khan, leave!’
The animal released its grip, retreated a few paces and sat on its haunches, still alert, eyes fixed on the target. Whimpering, one hand clutching his bleeding nose, Stumpy got to his feet. Over his shoulder, Chris called to Melissa. ‘Our friend here is going to tell us all about it.’
Slowly, Melissa walked out from behind the Morris. Stumpy’s eye’s stretched. ‘You … you meddling cow, you put him up to this! Oh my God, what have I let myself in for?’
He was a pitiable figure, standing there shivering in a thin shirt, his shapeless trousers tucked into shabby cowboy boots. His hair was tousled, his damaged face covered with blood and dirt from the floor. Melissa felt a wave of revulsion at what Chris had done; she had not bargained for anything like this. Her voice shook as she said, ‘Why don’t we go to your caravan to talk it over? If there’s no one else there, that is?’
‘Who d’you think I’ve got there – a bird?’ said Stumpy dejectedly. ‘Yeah, why not, if it’s okay with your gentleman friend, that is.’
‘Not till you tell us where you’ve hidden the silencer,’ said Chris implacably.
Stumpy, utterly defeated, pointed upwards.
‘Can you see anything, Melissa?’ asked Chris, without shifting his gaze.
‘Some planks lying across the beams supporting the roof. There’s something up there covered with sacking but I can’t see what it is.’
‘Stumpy will get it down for us, won’t you, mate?’
‘You ain’t going to take it away?’ pleaded Stumpy, and now there was naked terror in his eyes. ‘He said it was more than my life’s worth if I breathed a word …’
‘Who said? Vic Bellamy?’
‘He never told me his name. Honest!’ The man was not far from tears. ‘Look, what is all this about?’
At this point, Melissa intervened. ‘Can’t we look at the thing later – it won’t run away,’ she said. ‘I’m getting frozen. Let’s go over to the caravan.’
‘Okay,’ said Chris. ‘Maybe our host will make us some coffee.’
‘Bloody cheek!’ Stumpy muttered.
They locked the door, leaving Khan on guard. Stumpy led the way round behind the workshop to where the caravan stood against a hedge, its position invisible to anyone approaching in the normal way. Soft lighting glowed through curtained windows, giving it a cosy, welcoming appearance. Inside, it was comfortably warm.
Stumpy filled a kettle and lit a small gas stove. ‘Not sure if I’ve got three decent mugs,’ he grumbled. ‘You’ll have to take pot luck.’
‘We’ll manage. Make mine strong, not too much milk, no sugar.’ Chris sat on a cushioned seat at the rear of the van and stretched out his legs. ‘Well, isn’t this cosy?’ He whistled a few bars of ‘Mack the Knife’, then broke into song: On the sidewalk, Sunday morning, lies a body, oozin’ life. Poor Stumpy, measuring out instant coffee, trembled so hard that the spoon rattled against the mugs.
Melissa was becoming more uncomfortable by the minute, as well as concerned about the abrasions on Stumpy’s face.
‘I think you should clean up,’ she told him. ‘The skin’s broken – have you got any antiseptic?’
‘Got some Dettol somewhere.’ Leaving the kettle to boil, Stumpy vanished into a cubbyhole and they heard the sound of running water.
‘Is the psychological warfare really necessary?’ said Melissa unhappily. ‘The poor chap’s scared out of his wits.’
‘Fine. Let’s keep it that way.’
‘You could have broken his nose or something.’
‘Yeah, you’re right. I could have done.’ Chris seemed mildly amused at the thought.
There was a drumming sound on the roof; it had begun to rain.
‘Poor Khan will get soaked,’ said Melissa.
They waited. She looked round the caravan. It was built and equipped on luxury lines with good quality fittings, but it had obviously seen better days. The cupboard doors were scratched and chipped, the carpet and upholstery worn, the curtains faded and grubby. Stumpy had probably picked it up at a bargain price when the previous owners had finished with it. From what Ken Harris had told her, he came from a respectable family and had had a good upbringing. She wondered what had brought him to this solitary existence, and how he had become involved with Vic Bellamy.
Stumpy reappeared. One side of his face was swollen and bruised, but he had washed off the blood and dirt, combed his hair and covered his soiled shirt with a sweater. He took the kettle from the stove and poured hot water into the mugs, brought out a carton of milk from a small refrigerator and a packet of sugar from a cupboard, and put the lot on a battered tin tray which he set down on a table in front of his uninvited guests.
‘What, no biscuits?’ taunted Chris.
Stumpy glowered. ‘Wasn’t expecting company, was I? Look, just get on with it, will you – what’s your game?’
‘That,’ said Chris, reaching for a mug, ‘is what you’re going to tell us.’
Thirteen
‘It started a couple of months ago,’ said Stumpy. ‘This bloke with a posh accent turned up in a bloody great Yankee car and spun me a tale about wanting a place to hide his valuables when he went abroad. It had to be somewhere your ordinary thief who broke in to pinch the stereo wouldn’t think of looking.’
‘Was the dummy silencer his idea, then?’ asked Chris.
‘No, it was mine.’ Stumpy stopped fingering his bruises for a moment and straightened in his seat. ‘I thought of it, I designed it and I made it.’
‘And fitted it?’
‘Of course.’ Stumpy’s tone held a hint of confident pride. For the moment, mastery of his craft had given him the edge over Chris.
‘Didn’t it ever enter your head,’ Melissa asked, ‘that what he wanted to carry might be something illegal? Drugs, for instance?’
Stumpy put down his mug and wiped his mouth with the back of his hand. ‘Why should I care what he wanted it for? As far as I was concerned, it was a job – and he paid well, cash on the nail.’
‘How much?’ asked Chris.
Stumpy scowled. ‘That’s my business.’
Melissa saw Chris’s expression darken. Fearing that things were about to get rough again, she frowned at him, shook her head and said quickly, ‘It doesn’t matter. How long did it take?’
‘Can’t remember exactly. A week, maybe a bit less. The biggest problem was finding a place to fit the thing. As it was, I couldn’t make it as big as he wanted it, but he said it would do.’
‘How did he get the car to you?’
‘Some bird in a blue Renault came with him to drive him back, and again when he came to pick the car up.’
‘Kim, I suppose,’ Melissa remarked to Chris. ‘What did this woman look like?’ she asked, turning back to Stumpy.
‘Dunno. She never got out of the car.’
‘And you say the man didn’t give his name?’
‘Never thought to ask him. He gave me some bread in advance, to cover the materials I needed. I never doubted I’d get the rest, and I did.’ Stumpy dabbed gingerly at his face and rubbed his sore arm, wincing. ‘Got more’n I bargained for, didn’t I?’ he grumbled.
‘Right,’ said Chris. ‘That brings us up to date. Now finish the story. When did this bloke bring the car back to have the dummy silencer taken off?’
‘Yesterday evening. He rang about four and said he had an urgent job for me. I told him I couldn’t fit anything in before the end of the week, and he said “Stuff that, I want it done right away, it won’t take long.” He sounded pretty het up, so I said I’d do it after hours, but it’d cost him. He said, “Don’t worry, it’ll be worth your while,” and hung up.’
‘So what time did he
show up?’
‘Must have been well after eight.’
‘Did he say why it was so urgent?’
Stumpy shook his head and looked down at his boots. When he raised his eyes, Melissa saw the fear she had noticed earlier creeping back into them. ‘He never said a word till the job was done. Just stood there fidgeting and telling me to get on with it. When I’d finished, he said, “Hide it away somewhere safe till I need it. And if anyone comes here asking questions, you don’t know nothing, understand?”’
‘Is that all he said?’
Stumpy chewed his lower lip and his voice fell to a hoarse whisper. ‘He said something like, “I’ve got friends who could make life uncomfortable for you if you go telling tales.” He meant it too. He was smiling, but there was a sort of cold look in his eye that gave me the willies. Then he gave me a fistful of tenners and left. I hardly slept last night, wondering what I’d got into.’ He looked from Melissa to Chris with a beseeching expression. ‘You ain’t going to let him know I’ve told you? He’d half kill me, I know he would.’ His voice became a tremulous squeak.
‘No, I can promise you that.’ Chris stood up. ‘Now let’s have a look at this brilliant invention of yours.’
‘You ain’t planning on taking it away?’ pleaded Stumpy. ‘If I can’t produce it when the bloke comes back …’
‘Just show us, will you?’
The rain had almost stopped. Guided by Chris’s torch, they went back to the workshop, picking their way round the puddles. Khan appeared from the shadows; Chris patted him, said ‘Good boy’ and gave him a tit-bit which he acknowledged by circling round them, tongue lolling and tail swinging, then spraying them with water as he shook himself dry.
‘He’s off duty for the moment,’ said Chris with a grin. ‘Unless, of course, we have any trouble from our little friend.’
At the word ‘little’, Stumpy shot a glance of pure hatred at Chris, but he said nothing. He fetched a ladder and brought down a heavy bundle, which he laid on the bench and unwrapped.
‘That’s a weird-looking thing,’ Melissa remarked. In the workshop of the garage where she had recently taken the Golf to have new tyres fitted, she had noticed racks of exhaust systems of every shape and size, but none resembling this.
Stumpy said nothing, but his condescending expression indicated that it was only what could be expected from a woman. Chris was examining the object minutely, turning it in his hands.
‘Look at this, Mel. See how that section hinges back?’ He demonstrated, revealing an elliptical compartment some two feet long. ‘You stuff your loot in there, snap it shut, and this piece,’ he indicated the straight end of a loop of piping welded to the closure, ‘lies snugly by the genuine exhaust, as natural as can be.’
The interior of the compartment was clean. Melissa ran a finger over the surface and then examined it. It told her nothing.
‘Ingenious, innit?’ said Chris. ‘He’s a bright lad, our Stumpy.’
Stumpy gave a flicker of a smile that faded as he said nervously, ‘Look, mate, you’ve seen what you want. Now get the hell out of here, will you?’
‘Okay,’ said Chris, with a wink at Melissa. ‘Do we need to take this with us?’
‘For God’s sake,’ whispered Stumpy. ‘D’you want to get me torn apart?’
‘Of course we don’t want to take it,’ said Melissa firmly, with an angry glance at Chris. ‘We’re going now.’
At the door, Chris said, ‘No need to tell your customer about our visit.’
‘You’ve gotta be kidding!’
‘And thanks for the coffee.’
‘Oh, piss off, the pair of you!’
The road was still wet and glistening as they drove back to where Melissa had left her car. Water swished under their tyres, approaching traffic flung out fountains of spray that glistened in the headlights and fell in a fine mist on the windscreen. Throughout the short journey, Melissa sat staring ahead, saying nothing.
Chris parked the Jaguar and switched off the engine. As Melissa, still not speaking, reached for the door catch, he said, ‘You didn’t care much for that, did you?’
‘No,’ she said through her teeth. She would have found it difficult to express politely just how little she had cared for her first taste of real-life violence.
‘Had to make him talk, didn’t I?’ Chris’s tone was matter-of-fact, almost casual. She did not reply. ‘You look as if you could use a drink,’ he went on. There’s a pub across the way.’ She got out of the car and crossed the road, still without speaking. The interior of the pub was warm and welcoming, not crowded but comfortably full of cheerful, chattering people. She felt alienated from them as she sat at a corner table, reliving in her mind the scene in Stumpy’s workshop, hearing once more the sound of his face making contact with the floor and thinking, I wish I’d never got into this. Joe was right. Iris was right. I wish I’d stayed at home. It was an effort, when Chris returned with a glass of wine for her and an orange juice for himself, to smile and thank him.
After a moment’s pause, he asked, ‘Did you pick up anything from inside that thing?’
‘No, nothing at all. It looked almost surgically clean.’
‘Any ideas on what Vic’s been carrying in it?’
‘Not the slightest.’
‘So what do we do now?’
‘I suppose we’ll have to tell Mitch what we’ve found out.’
‘I’m not sure that’s a good idea.’
‘Why not? We’ll have to say something – he already knows I was going to see Stumpy.’
‘Yeah, that’s right.’ Chris frowned. ‘Anyway, he’s out tonight. Some business do with the Hon. Pen – he’s staying in London till tomorrow.’ He glanced at his watch. ‘I’d better get back soon. He’ll be checking in later on.’
‘Is the Hon. Pen back in the picture, then?’
‘She’s hanging in, hoping he’ll get tired of the other bird.’
‘You mean Dittany? He’s still keen on her?’
‘Oh, yeah.’ Chris swallowed a mouthful of orange juice. ‘Look, this doesn’t solve our problem. What’re we gonna do about this phoney exhaust on Vic’s car?’
‘But it isn’t on Vic’s car,’ Melissa pointed out. ‘And unless we can get Stumpy to give evidence, which he’s obviously much too scared to do, we can’t prove it ever was. And even if we could, how can we be sure it’s been used for anything crooked?’
‘No one goes to all that trouble if he’s on the level.’
‘I agree, but that’s hardly evidence.’
‘Yeah, I know. That’s why I’m in two minds whether to tell Mitch. He’ll go up in the air like a Roman candle, thinking he’s got Vic by the short and curlies. He won’t like it when I point out how things really are.’
‘Well, it’s up to you now.’
He looked dismayed. ‘You’re pulling out?’
‘There’s nothing more I can do, is there? It’s obvious Vic’s going to lie low for a while, and I can’t keep up this research charade much longer. If Mitch wants to know what he gets up to with that gadget on his car, he’ll have to have him watched to find out when he has it put back, and then have him tailed. It’s a job for a professional – I’m not taking it on.’
They had finished their drinks and by unspoken agreement they got up to leave. As they returned to their cars, he said, ‘You’re okay on your own?’
‘Of course. And tell Mitch I’ll be checking out of the hotel by lunchtime tomorrow.’
‘He won’t like it.’
‘Too bad.’
‘There’s a rehearsal in the evening – won’t you be coming to that?’
‘So the show is going ahead, in spite of what happened?’
‘Course it is – big PR exercise innit? Good for business, keep the customers in a good mood, all that crap.’ From his tone, it was plain that Chris had jaundiced views on the subject of corporate entertaining.
‘I don’t see any reason for me to be there. Anyway, I’ve g
ot things at home to catch up with.’ She got into her car and wound down the window, conscious that her tone had been far from cordial and trying to make amends. The man had simply been doing his job in the only way he knew. He, Mitch and their associates lived in a different milieu, another world; it was time for her to creep back into hers and close the door like a caddis worm. ‘Good-night,’ she said, ‘and thanks for the drink.’
‘Sure.’
When she re-entered the hotel, she was disconcerted to find both Kim and Vic at the reception desk, apparently studying some paperwork. They raised their heads with polite smiles. Kim asked if she had had a good day.
Vic’s gaze raked her briefly from head to foot. ‘Been out ghost hunting?’ he enquired. His tone was bantering but his eyes, as they finally made contact with hers, held an expression that called Stumpy’s description to mind: ‘a sort of cold look … it gave me the willies.’ It was an effort to respond naturally and her knees shook a little as she went up to her room.
She kicked off her shoes, pulling a face as she noticed the splashes of yellowish mud from the dirt track leading to Stumpy’s workshop. The bottoms of her trousers had similar stains and there were bits of grass clinging to the damp cloth. ‘Bother!’ she muttered crossly as she put them on a hanger. ‘Something else for the dry cleaners.’
She lay awake for a long time that night. There was no further doubt in her mind that Mitch was right; Vic was up to his neck in some kind of racket. He was illegally carrying or preparing to carry, during his trips abroad, some goods or substances for which wealthy people were willing to pay handsomely. She recalled what Mitch had said about visitors to the hotel turning up in large, expensive cars and receiving the VIP treatment. It pointed to deals actually taking place on the premises, presumably in the Bellamys’ private apartment. Deals in what? Her mind kept throwing up drugs as the obvious answer, yet she was not convinced. It might be something else. In any case, she kept reminding herself, she had played her part. If there was any more sleuthing to be done, others could do it.