Fault Lines (18 page)

‘There. I’m up. The police were kind, you know, but I don’t think they listened to me very hard or believed me.’

‘They should have,’ Trish said, holding out her hand. ‘You’re a good witness. One more thing: do you happen to know whether Kara ever had any dealings with a Kingsford man called Martin Drakeshill?’

‘Oh, I shouldn’t think so, my dear. He’s not a very nice character, and Kara could never have bought such a nice car from his garage. No, I think it’s most unlikely. Whoever could have told you that?’

‘A man called Blair Collons.’ The calculated indiscretion didn’t provoke any reaction.

‘I don’t think I’ve heard of him. Was he a friend of Kara’s?’

‘Yes, although I don’t think they were very close.’

‘No. It doesn’t sound like it. Not if he thought she’d ever have had any dealings with Drakeshill. He’s a really rather dreadful little man. What Jake, the gardener, calls a “real slimeball”.’

Trish couldn’t help smiling at the relish with which the insult was delivered. ‘Dreadful in what way?’

‘They say half the cars he sells have been stolen or else been written off as too dangerous to drive, and his garage is such an eyesore in Station Drive. Why the council haven’t closed him down, I’ll never know. I write at least once a year to complain, and I’m sure I’m not alone, but no one takes any notice.’

‘I see. Well, it doesn’t sound likely that he knew Kara, then. I’d better leave you in peace. Thank you so much for the tea.’

‘It was a pleasure.’

Trish knew that Mrs Davidson was watching her all the way down the garden path. She deliberately turned as she reached the road and waved. Mrs Davidson waved back and went indoors. How bad was her sight? Nothing she’d said about the man in Kara’s garden had ruled out Collons but, then, nothing had positively identified him either.

If it had, Trish would have gone straight to the Kingsford police to point them in his direction. As it was, she didn’t see how she could risk it. She set off for Drakeshill’s Used Cars.

The first person she stopped in the high street knew exactly where it was and gave her precise directions to Station Drive. She was interested that he showed no surprise at her wish to go there, which suggested that there was nothing too serious generally known against the owner, whatever Collons or the barrister in El Vino’s had suggested or, indeed, Mrs Davidson herself.

Station Drive was only about fifteen minutes’leisurely walk from the High Street, and Trish was soon wandering about among the gleaming cars parked in the forecourt. After a while a tall thin boy with the uncoordinated look of someone who doesn’t know his own strength shambled out to ask if she wanted any help. He had a badge on his overalls, which gave his name as Wes Jones.

Trish smiled, hoping he wasn’t the boy who had been in trouble for assaulting one of Drakeshill’s customers with a baseball bat, and told him she was looking for a car for her mother, a nervous driver who wanted an easy little runabout that wouldn’t cost her a bomb in servicing and new brake shoes. You know the sort of thing.

‘Oh, yeah. Right. Well, you’d better ask the boss. I’ll get him. Will you wait?’

‘Yes, I’ll wait. How kind of you to bother. Thank you.

He looked puzzled by her politeness, but he scuffed his way over the concrete to the one-storey building at the back, in front of which flew huge red-and-black flags with DRAKESHILL’S embroidered on them in gold letters. There was another youth outside it, looking like a much tougher proposition than Wes. As she watched he hauled up the bonnet of an ancient battered Sierra. He was too far away for her to be able to read his name badge or even see his face clearly, but as he bent into the engine then emerged to forage in a large metal tool box for a spanner, she had the impression of taut muscles and considerable strength. ‘Hey, Wes,’ he called, without bothering to look up from his work, ‘how many times you been told not to leave customers alone?’

‘I’m not,’ Wes said, sounding scared. ‘I’m going to get the boss for her. OK, Chompie?’

‘Who said you could call me Chompie?’ Even from a distance, Trish could hear the menace in the question.

‘Everyone else does,’ said Wes resentfully.

The other youth emerged from under the bonnet, wiping his hands on a rag. Wes took a step backwards.

‘You’ve a long way to go before you can.’ He laughed. ‘Go on, get him for her and tell him from me you need someone to wipe your bum for you.’

He bent into the car through its open window and turned on the ignition. The engine roared into life. Leaving it running, he walked back to stand in front of the bonnet, apparently examining the working parts. He paid no attention whatsoever to Trish or to poor Wes, who hurried, stumbling, into the office.

Charming, thought Trish.

A few moments later a man of not much more than five feet eight with a big paunch and a lot of gold jewellery waddled out of the doorway between the flags. Trish waited where she was.

‘So,’ he said, when he was within comfortable range. ‘My lad says you’re looking for a nice little mover for your old lady. That right, is it?’

‘That’s right,’ Trish said, putting on her ditsiest, girliest smile, which was neither very ditsy nor girly. ‘I’m looking for a new … well, a new second-hand car for my mother, probably one with that kind of opening back and costing not more than about two thousand pounds. Is that possible? Anyway, I don’t really know what to get. I’ve been told by a man who works for the council that you’d be just the man to advise me if I was coming to Kingsford.’

‘Oh, yes? And what’s your mother driving at the moment?’ Drakeshill said, apparently unmoved by the mention of the council.

Trish hadn’t exactly expected him to fall on his knees and confess to being part of Collons’s great conspiracy, but she had thought he might show a little interest in the identity of the person who’d recommended him. As it was, he looked supremely uninterested. That proved nothing, but it was a useful pointer.

‘A Metro,’ she said truthfully. ‘She likes it but it’s very old now and it keeps needing things mended. She’s just had new brake shoes, and on her pension that sort of thing gets too expensive. And, well, I just don’t think she’s getting the best value out of it any more. But she doesn’t know anything about cars, and she seems to think that I must know more. I can’t think why, because I don’t. But she’s so scared she’s going to be ripped off, and since you were so highly recommended to me, I thought it would be worth coming along to ask you what you thought would be the best kind of car for her.’

Trish wished that she had hair long enough to scoop behind her ears or a string of pearls she could twiddle. She did not think she could have kept up the prattle for much longer, even if she had had enough breath, and so she was glad to see from Drakeshill’s impatient eyes that she had made her point. She blinked and smiled expectantly.

‘You’ve come to the right man, love,’ he said with a fatherly air that was no more convincing than her own act. Trish could well imagine him going after a defaulting buyer with intent and a weapon, probably with the unpleasant Chompie at his side. She blinked at him and smiled again. ‘I know more about used cars than you know about your kitchen sink, love, and I’ll see you and your old lady right. You won’t have to worry about a thing.’

Trish heaved a sigh, suppressed the itch to smack his complacent face, and tried another wide smile. ‘That’s just what I hoped you’d say. If only I knew more, I wouldn’t have to be so hopeless.’

‘Don’t you worry now. Ladies shouldn’t never have to worry about cars.’ He leered at her. She thought she had no right to take exception to that, if anyone had led a man on, she had. She smiled even more flutteringly and told him that it was such a relief to deal with an expert.

‘Now, how about this one, then? Nice little Fiesta. Good little runner. A Ford’s just what she’d like. Good reliable cars and easy serviced wherever you are.’

‘I’m not sure she’d be happy with a yellow car. And respraying’s awfully expensive, isn’t it?’

‘Can be. Or there’s this Panda. That’s a nice little motor, too.’

‘Yes. It does look good, and such a pretty blue. Does the heater work?’

‘Oh, sure. Come and have a look.’

Half afraid that he was about to suggest a test drive, Trish obediently sat in the driver’s seat and tilted the mirror so that she could look at her own reflection, smoothing her eyebrows. She noticed Drakeshill smiling to himself. It was lucky she’d read that article the other day about the way some women chose their cars. He handed her the key and when she had switched on the ignition he showed her how to turn on the heater.

‘I wish I could take you out for a spin,’ he said, ‘but I’m short-handed just now and I can’t leave the boy alone. He’s new. Doesn’t know his arse from his elbow yet.’

‘Oh, I see. Goodness. No. That’s OK. There wouldn’t be any point, would there? I mean, since it’s not me who’s going to be driving it. I’ll tell my mother what it costs and that it’s … You are sure that it’s safe and in good condition, aren’t you?’

‘Sweet as sweet can be. Listen to that engine.’

‘Yes,’ said Trish, hearing an unmistakable rattle. ‘It does sound powerful, doesn’t it? Now, has it got a full service history, and a – what do they call it – a log book?’

His eyes narrowed for a moment. Trish kept the silly, inquiring look on her face. Then he patted her arm, and made it clear that he wanted to help her out of the driving seat.

‘You don’t want to worry about log books and service histories, love, whatever your boyfriend in the council’s been telling you. That sort of thing is only used by poncy dealers up West to bump up the price of their motors. All you need is an engine that sings like this one and tyres with a good bit of tread.’

Trish thought of asking what ‘tread’meant but she didn’t think she could make the question convincing. Instead she asked him where he got his cars.

‘Part-exchange mostly,’ he said fluently, beaming at her. ‘My punters have been coming back to me for years every time they want a new motor.’

‘I see. Well, look, I think the best thing would be for me to tell my mother about the Panda. Then, if she likes the idea, I could get the AA to come and do a survey, and if they OK it, I can bring her here for a test drive and you could see her Metro to work out how much you could offer her in part-exchange. How would that be?’

‘That’s fine, if you want to have a survey. But you’d be wasting your money, love. I’ll get Chompie over there to give the engine a good going-over. He’s my best lad. Then it’ll be ready for your mother to come and have a look. When shall we say? Tomorrow morning?’

‘I’ll have to ask her how she’s fixed. I wasn’t sure I’d find anything here so I haven’t even mentioned that I was coming to look. I’ll phone her when I get home and then let you know. What’s your number?’

Drakeshill handed her a flamboyant card with a gold sports car embossed at the top and his name printed in flowing script beneath.

‘Thanks. Have you got a pen?’

He handed her a gold-plated biro and watched sourly as she said she’d just write down the registration numbers of the Panda and the bright-yellow Fiesta so that her mother would know exactly which cars she was supposed to be looking at. Then she tucked the card into her Coutts diary, murmuring that she could not possibly lose it if it was in there.

‘That’s great.’ She gave him back his pen. ‘I’ll be in touch.’

‘You’d better give me your phone number in case something comes in that’s even more suitable for your old lady,’ he said, still with the sour expression in his eyes.

‘Oh, of course, how silly of me,’ she said. Remembering the baseball bat, she told him that her name was Sarah Tisbury and she made up a phone number. She thought she could see derision in his eyes and hoped that it had been provoked by her performance rather than the name she’d just invented.

Barry Spinel arrived at the new pub as nearly worried as he ever got. Drakeshill had asked for an urgent meeting. They’d set up the code for that months ago, but Spinel had never expected either of them to have to use it. Something must have happened. And it wasn’t likely to be a huge delivery of drugs coming into Kingsford. Drakeshill usually had much more notice of things like that.

Pushing open the door and peering through the fug of smoke and dust, Spinel saw him in a corner near the fruit machines. He looked bad tempered, which was reassuring. It couldn’t be anything too serious. Spinel caught his attention and waved, then pointed to the bar. Drakeshill’s face took on an ‘at last’kind of expression. Spinel started shouldering his way through the mob at the bar to buy the drinks.

‘So what’ve you got for me that’s so rushed, Marty?’ He dumped the two pints on Drakeshill’s table then reached into the pocket of his leather bomber jacket for the crisps he’d bought. Sometimes biting things helped Drakeshill deal with his temper.

‘I haven’t. I want you to do something for me.’

Spinel was much too old a hand to ask any questions. He watched Drakeshill over the rim of his glass as he took a swallow of the bitter. Then he took another. It wasn’t bad. No wonder the crowd at the bar was four deep in this dingy pub.

Drakeshill reached for the crisp packet and ripped it open. The whole thing fell apart and the contents shot out in all directions, covering the table and falling into both men’s laps. Spinel started to shovel together the crisps on the table.

‘Leave it, Bal.’ Drakeshill’s voice was edgy and rough. ‘And tell me, why’d a scrawny bitch called Sarah Tisbury be sneaking round my place asking questions?’

‘Who?’ Spinel abandoned the crisps and, feeling foam on his lip, wiped the back of his hand across his mouth.

‘Sarah Tisbury. She was round at my place today asking cheeky questions about log books and registration documents.’

‘Doesn’t ring any bells with me. Sarah Tisbury? What’s she look like?’

‘I told you. Scrawny. Five ten or eleven, thin, dark hair sticking up all over her head. Pleased with herself. Fucking pleased with herself. Poncy voice. Not the sort to buy cars from a place like mine. She’s a snooper for sure. The question is, Bal, what sort of snooper?’