While I was planning this sensible course of action, I found to my amazement that my feet were moving of their own accord. They were edging me round the back of the Jaguar, as if they were set on getting me nearer to the lad at the wheel, putting me in his blind spot. At the same time, my hand reached into my jacket pocket and found the old dog lead I’d picked up at Lisa’s.
Before I could puzzle this out, my brain had joined in. The sound of acid house music thumping into the street told me that the driver’s window of the car was partly open. That was a mistake, of course, even on a warm night. In two more steps I was at the door. The driver saw me coming in his wing mirror, but it was too late by then.
“Come on now, Rusty, come on. Leave the gentleman’s car alone. We’ll find you a nice tree in a minute. Just hang on, lad. No, no, not the tyre. Oh dear, oh dear. Sorry about that, mate.”
I grinned at the thug inanely, clutching my dogless lead at arm’s length as if struggling to control an extremely small but stubborn canine.
“He has a bit of a thing about car wheels. I don’t know what it is, but he can’t pass one without watering it, if you know what I mean.”
The bloke curled his lip as he stared at me, no doubt classifying me as a local halfwit. Then he made his second big mistake. He stuck his head out of the window to peer down at the imaginary mutt that was supposedly cocking its leg against his Michelin radials.
“Hey, there’s no bloody—”
But he didn’t get any further. My right hand whipped in through the open window and grabbed his pony tail hard. I’ve always been keen on pony tails — they’re dead handy in an emergency. While he thrashed around trying to turn his head towards me, my left hand got the car door open. I pulled hard and the bloke flew out of his seat and hit the tarmac head first, with a loud crack.
He twitched a bit, then lay still, his legs still trailing across the door sill. That was good. It saved me the trouble of hitting him. I felt guilty enough about the dog trick already. I’d only been taking the piss.
There was a sound of running feet on the road behind me. I didn’t look round, because from the way the whole street vibrated at Richter scale eight I knew it was Doncaster Dave coming up fast, scowling no doubt, because I’d got into a fight without him.
“No problems, Dave,” I said.
“Yeah?”
Rather than go straight up to the vicarage I climbed the steps into the churchyard and went through a little wooden gate at the side, which led to the Rev’s back door. It isn’t one of those old vicarages with fifteen bedrooms and drafts from hell. The old one had been demolished years ago and replaced by this red brick bungalow. Fortunately, it has a set of French windows onto the back garden. So by the time I got to the end of the path I could see people standing about in the sitting room admiring the furniture. Well, two of them were standing around. The Rev was sitting in an armchair. His back was to me, and I could just make out the top of his head. He wasn’t moving much, but his visitors were smiling. Bad sign.
Only two, though. And neither of them was Eddie Craig, and neither of them was Lump Hammer Stan. Good sign.
Dave arrived behind me, following like the faithful dog that the lead belonged to. Time to make a move, before the bloke by the car came round. I gave Dave his instructions, then sent him round to the front to ring the doorbell. What? Did you think we were going to bust straight in like the SAS? That sort of stuff is for kids. Why bother with all that energy and aggro, when you can use brains and make it easy?
I lurked near the French windows, out of sight behind an overgrown shrub that the churchyard rota party really ought to get round to one day. I knew about these particular French windows — they’re dead easy to get through. A quick tap in the right place and the catch falls open on the inside. I knew this because I’d done it before — only so that I could point out to the Rev how vulnerable he was to thieves, of course. I’d told him his second hand Victorian sideboard and his old Remington typewriter could be nicked at any moment, but he didn’t take any notice. But at least that meant the catch would still drop open when I wanted it to.
I heard the doorbell ring. A good long ring. The two lads in the sitting room stopped what they were doing and looked at each other for instructions. That’s the drawback to sending out this sort of low-class heavy out on a job. They’re programmed for one thing only, and if something goes wrong with the script they don’t know who to start kicking first.
Finally one of them walked through a door into the next room, which looked out onto the front of the house. He couldn’t see who was at the door because of the nifty little brick porch that had been built round it. But he could see the Jag parked at the kerb, and he could see his mate was no longer sitting in the driver’s seat. Therefore it must be his mate at the door. Two and two, you see? Boy, those maths can really get you into trouble.
I watched number one come back into the sitting room and mouth something at number two, who smirked. Then he went out again, this time through the far door, into the hallway. He was going to answer the door to the driver, or so he thought. And maybe he was going to take the piss out of him for leaving his post to go to the loo or something.
It went very quiet for a while. Nobody came back into the room. I could see number two fidgeting, doing everything but stick his head round the door into the hallway to see what was happening. He didn’t seem to want to take his eyes off the Rev. This was obviously what he’d been programmed for, and he was sticking to it.
I waited until he was good and edgy, then I stepped out from behind the shrub and gave the French window a smart rap with my fist. Spot on. It sprang open and I stepped into the room as the lad whirled round to face me, his hand going straight for his pocket. The trouble was, he had his back to the hallway now, and it wasn’t me he had to worry about. The door swung open and a huge fist came round in a snappy arc. The lad may just have felt the breeze from it a split second before the fist connected with the side of his head. He crumpled like derelict pit buildings do when the demolition blokes set off their explosives. Thump, crumple and a cloud of dust. Gone.
“You all right, Rev?”
The Reverend Bowring looked a bit battered. His dog collar had slipped, and there was blood on his lip and trickling from his nose. He’d have a nice black eye tomorrow. On Sunday he’d be able to address his congregation on Gordon and His Face of Many Colours. But, ridiculously, he looked completely calm. Serene even. What’s up with this bloke?
“Livingstone? Hello. And David, isn’t it? Thank you for dropping by.”
“It looked as though you needed help.”
“Very strange. I don’t know what they wanted. I offered them the sideboard and the Remington, like you said, Livingstone, but they just laughed. Are they colleagues of yours?”
“Hardly.”
“Oh. It’s just that I got the impression from what they said that they might be in the same line of business. Rivals then, perhaps? Your name was certainly mentioned.”
“What a surprise.”
“I don’t really know what to do now,” he admitted, eyeing the body on the carpet. “Does one offer tea and an aspirin from the first aid tin? Or will they just go away? I’m not used to this sort of thing.”
“If anything like this happens again, you phone the police straight off, no messing.”
“One hardly likes to bother them.”
“Well, don’t let the buggers through the door in the first place. Get proper locks fitted. You need security, Rev, I’ve told you before.”
I was getting a bit cross with him, probably because he was making me feel guilty. I don’t know how he does this trick — I had my conscience taken out with my appendix years ago.