“Nuala — clear off. Go. Quick.”
“Don’t talk to me like that. I was only trying to help.”
“Sod that. Will you just get away? Move!”
I gave her a shove that sent her tottering off down the street. She threw her arms in the air angrily and flounced off, muttering abuse. As she went, she got a couple of appreciative leers from the windows of the big car that had been cruising quietly up behind us. I must have been thinking too hard, or I would have noticed it before. Anyway, I stood quite still as it came alongside me, letting Nuala get clear.
A rear door came open as the Jaguar pulled into the kerb in front of a parked-up Transit van with a smashed wing. There were three lads in the car. The one in the back was Sledgehammer Stan, as ugly as ever. The other two looked like ageing rejects from the Hell’s Angels, but without the bikes or the hair styles. I recognised the stubble on one of them. He’d left his shades off today — probably so that he could give me the evil eye better.
“McClure. Eddie wants to talk to you.”
“Fine, fine. I’ll give him a ring some time, when I’m not so busy.”
I kept walking, at a brisk pace. I was gambling that Stan and his mates wouldn’t resort to extreme violence here in the street in broad daylight, but it wasn’t a certainty. Since there were three of them and only one of me, and one of them was Sledgehammer Stan, I’d already decided to co-operate for once, if they insisted. I know, I know — it’s not like me, but it was one of those days. I just couldn’t be bothered taking them on.
The car had to pull out to go round a roadside skip and an old Ford Cortina that hadn’t moved for years. It wasn’t likely to, either, with those bricks under the wheels. Then the Jag got back to the kerb and the door opened again.
“McClure. Get in.”
“Nice of you to offer me a lift. But I’ve got an urgent appointment up the Cow’s Arse.”
“Eddie wants to talk to you now,” said Stan.
No sense of humour, Stan. I reckon he’s been watching too many films, the sort where the heavies only have one line. I knew better than to try engaging Sledgehammer or his mates in conversation. You can’t communicate with pondlife.
Stan and one of the lads started to get out of the Jag. I resigned myself to a ride. Then they stopped and went suddenly into reverse. It was like one of those old silent films when they run the frames backwards for comic effect. Had they decided I was too hard for them after all? Had my wit put them off?
As the Jaguar pulled away and accelerated down the street, another motor came cruising the other way. This one was less flashy, a red Mondeo with mud splattered on its door panels and a pair of glasses glinting behind the windscreen. I kept walking. DI Frank Moxon may be slightly preferable to Sledgehammer Stan, but it doesn’t mean I have to say thank you.
12
Then I remembered I’d promised to visit Uncle Willis. Rolling Meadows seemed as safe a place as any to be just now.
As I passed St Asaph’s, I could see a local builder, Gary Lockman, and a youth I didn’t know up a couple of ladders on the vestry roof. A second youth was helping Gary’s mate pass up some roof tiles. It looked like the Rev was getting his hole fixed.
Gary spotted me as soon as I arrived, and his eyes lit up. The lads were doing it for nowt, of course, but Gary had to be paid — he has a legit business to run and a tax man to satisfy, poor sod.
“It’s not my normal sort of job this, you know, Stones. I’m a craftsman builder, not a chuffin’ social worker.”
“Yeah, yeah.”
“I mean, I’ve got to watch these kids all the time. They might nick me tools or something.”
“Just let me have the bill, Gary, okay?”
“All right, all right. I’m only saying.”
It does that to you, being legit. It makes you treat everybody else as though they’re suspicious persons. I know this because I was legit myself once.
“Ah, the roof repair men,” said the Rev’s voice. “Thank you so much. It’s wonderful, what you’re doing here. God bless you all.”
The Rev favoured Gary and the two sullen kids with his best smile. “Let me know when it’s time for your break, gentlemen, and I’ll brew up. Or mash the tea, as I’m told I should say in these parts.”
The lads looked baffled. Naturally, they expected this poncy vicar bloke to be really pissed off with them for nicking his roof. And here he was thanking them and offering to brew up. But they didn’t know the half of it. The Rev is on a totally different planet, permanently. I mean he’s a brick short of a privy; a pickle short of a jar. This is the bloke who once found four glue sniffers in the churchyard just getting their snouts into the plastic bags behind one of those big eighteenth century tombs, where they’d pulled some stones down to crash out on. And what did he do? He only invited them into the vestry for a chat and a Bible reading. So they went in, laughing, taking the mickey, thinking they might do the old bloke over for the collection money. Six months later, two of them are still in the church choir and their spots have healed up.
I wanted to sneak away before the Rev started asking me about nuptials again. I sometimes think he has a one-track mind — he’s always on about people making commitments. As if we could all commit ourselves to something, like he has. Just how long will he have to live in Medensworth before he discovers that you can’t go looking for the good in everybody when there’s none to be found? Commitment isn’t in our shopping trolleys. They haven’t sold it at Cost Cutters for years.
When I turned away from the Rev I almost bumped into a big, red-faced man with a grey moustache and no more than a few wisps of hair on his head. He was dressed in an old boiler suit, trouser legs tucked into a pair of boots as if he was ready for work. He was carrying an electric strimmer and a suspicious expression. Right now he was looking at the ladders propped against the wall of the vestry.
Welsh Border. How could my timing have been so bad?
“What’s going on here, then?”
When he says that, he sounds so much like a copper it makes me want to reach for the roll of cash I keep in my back pocket for emergencies. I mean emergencies like a quick bung to keep me out of the nick. But it wouldn’t work with Councillor Border anyway. Pillar of the community, he is. Straight as a die. He’s making up for a lifetime working as a company accountant, you see. If you want a professional crook, try those guys. There’s more money goes missing in the small print of company accounts every year than in a thousand Great Train Robberies. They call it modern business practice. I call it authorised robbery. Anyway, Councillor Border is desperately trying to balance his own personal profit and loss accounts before that Great Auditor in the Sky finally gets a look at his books. All right, you might say — let him get on with it. But the trouble is, he can’t bear to let the rest of us get on with a bit of creative accounting of our own. Me, I’m happy to let the bottom line take care of itself. I don’t need Welsh Border trying to keep me on the straight and narrow. And he’s so suspicious. Unhealthy, that is.
“Where have those roof tiles come from? Who’s paying for them?”
The last question pained the Rev. He prefers not to think about who’s paying for things like this.
“Don’t worry about it, Rev,” I said quickly.
“Do you know who these people are, Mr Bowring?”
“Well, I’m sure—”
Whatever the Rev was sure of, it wasn’t enough for Welsh. He recognised Gary, who was a perfectly reputable tradesman. But he was frowning at the two lads, and I could see him mentally slotting them into a category. No matter how right he might be in this case, I don’t like to see that. It makes me go into righteous mode, and that’s not a pretty sight. It can take me days to recover, and it feels like going I’m going through cold turkey. No wonder I try to avoid Welsh Border.