Bunburry--A Murderous Ride Read online

  4. Meeting Mike

  Alfie had taught himself to be a reasonable mechanic in his twenties when he acquired his first car, an ancient battered Austin, and couldn’t afford garage prices. But this was a classic car. He wouldn’t dream of attempting any diagnostics or repairs himself, he had to find a specialist. Oscar. Oscar had contacts everywhere.

  He found his phone and took a couple of shots of the Jaguar, then sent them to Oscar with a message: “I’ve inherited a car as well as a cottage.”

  A Wildean quote whizzed back: “Let me be surrounded by luxury, I can do without the necessities!” It was followed by a second message: “You may thank me for the timely delivery later.”

  Puzzled, Alfie locked the garage and headed back to the cottage.

  “The very man – please may I have your signature?” came a female voice. Alfie turned to see the postwoman retrieving a small package from her bag. “It’s from London,” she confided.

  Alfie found it disconcerting that so many things he considered private were considered public throughout the village. He wouldn’t put it past the local post office staff to steam open letters they thought might be particularly interesting.

  The package was from Oscar. Alfie duly signed for it and said goodbye, although he knew the postwoman would have much preferred him to open it in front of her so that she could relay the contents to everyone else. But as soon as he had closed Aunt Augusta’s purple front door behind him, he slit the package open. It was his driving licence, with a note in Oscar’s distinctive copperplate handwriting. You said you didn’t know where your licence was. How fortunate that you have me. I found it in less than ten minutes among your perfectly ordered paperwork. Now you can hire a car.

  With a slightly slanted smile, Alfie headed for the bedroom and the telephone.

  “Ah, Lane,” he said when Oscar answered in his butler persona, “kindly thank the young master for the package which has just arrived.”

  “The young master does not trouble himself with matters of commerce. The thanks are entirely due to myself.”

  “Very much appreciated. And perhaps you could help me with another matter.”

  “I shall endeavour to render whatever assistance I can, sir.”

  “I’ve recently acquired a classic car, a Jaguar convertible. Do you happen to know of a reputable garage who could check it out for me?”

  “The young master was admiring the photographic representation of the motor vehicle only moments ago, and may I compliment sir on his acquisition? And I have a solution for you. By chance, I have just been reading an article about a gentleman who owns a significant collection of such vehicles, a Mr Charles Teflon Tennison —”

  “Oscar,” Alfie broke in, unable to keep up the pretence of talking to the butler, “I don’t want to hear about that man. I really can’t believe you have the gall to mention him, knowing what he did.”

  There was a short silence and then Oscar said, in his own voice: “You know I’m on your side, Alfie? Perhaps this time you would do me the courtesy of hearing me out.”

  Alfie muttered an apology.

  “I wouldn’t dream of suggesting that you have any dealings with Tennison. He’s a crook of the first order,” Oscar went on. “He also has the country’s finest collection of vintage cars. According to the article, half of the collection is housed at his cousin’s place in the Cotswolds. I know his cousin very well – we were in Pop together.”

  Alfie was briefly puzzled and then remembered this meant that they had both been prefects at Eton. He had gradually picked up bits of the Old Etonians’ bizarre vocabulary from Oscar, who seemed to find it perfectly normal.

  “David Savile is a thoroughly decent chap and undoubtedly mortified by Charlie’s ongoings. But blood’s thicker than water. He would feel obliged to help with the cars. So I imagine he’ll know a suitable mechanic nearby. May I give him your number?”

  “I suppose so,” said Alfie, embarrassment making him awkward. This was the second time he had been unjustifiably brusque with Oscar and what made it worse was knowing that Oscar would automatically forgive him. “Thank you. I’m sorry.”

  “No apology necessary. True friends stab you in the front.”

  Alfie recognised another Wildean quip.

  “I shall ring David immediately. You’ll be whizzing round the English countryside in that divine convertible in next to no time.”

  Alfie wasn’t sure whether Aunt Augusta’s prediction of him driving her car was a blessing or a curse. As a boy, he had dreamed of taking hold of the slim steering wheel with its gold Jaguar emblem. Now he didn’t want to get behind any steering wheel ever again. But so that he could report to Oscar with a clear conscience, he slipped the driving licence into his pocket. It left him able to hire a car immediately while committing him to nothing. And he felt vindicated when a text arrived shortly afterwards.

  David Savile here, in Bunburry this pm, meet in tearoom 2.30pm?

  Alfie texted back Ideal, thank you and set out in due time to meet Oscar’s old schoolfriend. The tearoom was crowded, and he couldn’t see a free table. Then a portly man in a tweed jacket, with a neat short-back-and-sides haircut, stood up and waved. “Alfie?”

  Alfie made his way over and shook hands. David Savile had an open, friendly face with laughter lines round his eyes.

  “How did you recognise me?” Alfie asked.

  “Oscar described you. How was it he put it? Tall, slim, floppy brown hair, thoughtful expression.”

  Alfie laughed. “Yes, I thought we weren’t going to get a table. I’m glad you were already here.”

  “And already tucking in,” David said. He had slathered a warm scone with butter, before adding cream and jam, and poured himself tea from the silver teapot. “Bunburry has the best cream teas in the county.”

  Alfie suspected David’s shape might be due to extensive comparison tests and ordered a more modest toasted teacake.

  “So,” said David, once Alfie had been served, “what brings you to Bunburry?”

  “An elderly relative left me a cottage and I’m staying in it while I decide what to do.”

  “With the cottage or generally?”

  There was genuine interest behind the question and for a second, Alfie contemplated telling David about Vivian, about how he didn’t care where he was as long as it wasn’t the home he had shared with her in London, about how he had no plans apart from trying to survive each new day without her. But only for a second.

  “A bit of both,” he said easily. “I’m taking some time out from the day job.”

  “Yes, I read something in the business pages a while back about you selling your start-up. So no plans yet for the next venture?”

  “The next venture is getting the car roadworthy,” said Alfie, taking out his phone. “This is what I inherited along with the cottage.”

  David looked at the picture and gave a whistle of admiration. “She’s a beauty. And I can certainly help. I used to go to a chap on the other side of Oxford, which wasn’t particularly convenient, but there’s now an excellent mechanic just down the road, name of Mikhail Melnikov.”

  “A Russian?” asked Alfie in surprise.

  “Not so’s you’d notice. His parents are Russian, and I haven’t enquired as to why they came over, but he was born here. Here as in England, not as in Bunburry – I think he’s only been in the area for a couple of years. Everybody calls him Mike. He’s a real character.”

  David spread a liberal amount of butter on his second scone and then upended the ramekin of jam over it.

  “I’ve got a bit of a sweet tooth,” he said unnecessarily.

  “Have you tried Bunburry fudge?” asked Alfie. He had first sampled it as a child and thought it was the most wonderful thing he had ever tasted. The highlight of his return to Bunburry was the discovery that it was made by Liz in what was literall
y a cottage industry: Liz concocted the fudge in her kitchen, while Marge marketed it and kept the books.

  “Can’t say I have. But I’m very fond of fudge.”

  “My mother always said it was the best fudge in the Cotswolds,” said Alfie.

  “So you knew the Cotswolds already?”

  “I consider myself a Londoner, since that’s where I grew up, but unlike Mr Melnikov, I was actually born here.”

  No need to mention the circumstances of his birth, to admit that he had never known his father. He wondered how many people in Bunburry were aware of what had happened. Probably anyone over the age of sixty – it must have been a delicious scandal at the time. But so far, nobody had been tactless enough to mention it.

  “So we’re two Cotswold boys together,” said David. “Excellent. Perhaps if we join forces, we’ll manage to persuade Oscar to venture into the country.”

  “I doubt that very much,” said Alfie. “He spends his time demanding to know when I’m coming back to London.”

  David sighed. “He has a fit of the vapours every time I invite him to stay. I keep assuring him that we have electricity and running water, but he doesn’t believe me.” He crammed the last chunk of scone into his mouth, then produced his wallet from his jacket pocket. “If you’re ready, shall we go and call on Comrade Melnikov?”

  Alfie stood up. “Please, let me get this.” Ignoring David’s protests, he went over to the counter and paid the bill, making an extra purchase as he did so.

  David had a sturdy 4x4 that sat high above the road. The garage was a fair distance outside Bunburry, but still closer than the other side of Oxford. David ushered Alfie inside, calling out a greeting. It was a large, well-lit space with two hydraulic lifts, one of them bearing a silver BMW.

  “Mr Savile, sir!” A muscular, fair-haired young man emerged from underneath it, wiping his hands on a rag, which he shoved in the pocket of his overalls. He had a ready smile and eyes that missed nothing. Alfie summed him up immediately as an engaging rogue. “What can I do for you today?”

  “Not a thing,” said David. “But I’ve brought you a potential new customer.”

  Alfie was startled. He had assumed that David was seeing Mike about his own stable of cars.

  “This is Mr McAlister,” said David and Mike The Mechanic approached with his hand outstretched.

  “Dobriy dyen,” said Alfie.

  Mike looked briefly surprised and then his smile widened further. “Vy govorite po russki?”

  Alfie struggled to remember what that meant. “If you just asked whether I speak Russian, I only know a few phrases,” he admitted.

  “But you’ve been there?”

  “I have.” He had wanted to take Vivian on the Trans-Siberian Railway, a journey of almost six thousand miles from Moscow to Vladivostok. She had protested, saying it was too close to the beginning of filming, that she had other projects she had to complete first. He had argued that it was only six nights on the train, but she pointed out that they would have to add on at least another three days to get there and back.

  “I just can’t do it. Once the film’s finished, we can go then.”

  But he had managed to whisk her away for a long weekend.

  “I’ve been to St Petersburg,” he told Mike.

  Mike spread his arms wide as though taking the credit for the trip. “That’s where my parents are from.” He went over to a small desk in the corner of the garage and picked up a mobile phone. “It would really make my mum’s day if you said hello to her in Russian.”

  David was leaning against the wall, grinning, enjoying the spectacle.

  Mike keyed in the number, spoke in rapid Russian to the person at the other end, then handed the phone to Alfie.

  “Dobriy dyen,” said Alfie again.

  There was a peal of delighted laughter and a female voice said: “Dobriy dyen.”

  Mike made a circular movement with his hand, indicating that Alfie should keep speaking. He dredged his memory for another phrase. “Kak vas zovut?” he managed, which he hoped was asking her name.

  More laughter. “Menya zovut Marina. A kak vas zovut?”

  “Menya zovut Alfie.”

  “Alfee,” she repeated.

  Mike’s hand was still circling. There was only one other phrase that Alfie could remember. “Ya khotyel by piva.”

  Mike’s mother’s laugh was drowned out by her son’s. “He just said he wants a beer,” Mike translated for David’s benefit.

  “What did you think of the beer?” asked Mike’s mother in attractively accented English.

  “The beer was good, and the vodka was even better.”

  “And my home town, what did you think of it?”

  “It’s one of the most beautiful cities I’ve seen,” said Alfie. “I would like to go back for longer.”

  “You must do that. And first you must come to visit me. I will tell you all the places to see, and I will teach you some more Russian.”

  “I would like that very much,” said Alfie.

  “So it’s fixed? I can expect you?”

  Alfie couldn’t imagine ever returning to St Petersburg, every street reminding him that Vivian was no longer with him. But he had felt an immediate rapport with Mike’s mother, and some Russian lessons might be a much-needed distraction.

  “You can.”

  “Otlichno! Can you repeat that, Alfee, otlichno?”

  “Otlichno,” said Alfie obediently.

  “Perfect! Remember, you are welcome any time. Do svidanya.”

  “Do svidanya,” Alfie said, handing the phone back to Mike, who had a brief jokey conversation with his mother in Russian before ringing off.

  “She’s very impressed,” he told Alfie. “Thanks for that. She really means the invitation – she says you’re the first British person to have spoken to her in Russian since she arrived, and that was 26 years ago.”

  “We’re not known for our language skills, are we?” said David ruefully. “We just shout loudly in English to get foreigners to understand us.”

  “But not Mr McAlister,” said Mike.

  “I don’t necessarily know what I’m saying. What does otlichno mean anyway?”

  Mike grinned. “Nothing bad. It means ‘excellent’ – and Mum says your accent’s great. And now, if I can’t do anything for Mr Savile, what can I do for you?”

  Alfie got out his own phone and displayed the photo of the Jaguar. “This car hasn’t been driven for a long time. I’m looking to get it roadworthy.”

  Mike enlarged the picture. “Nice. Very nice indeed. An XK 140. Cotswold Blue.”

  “Sorry?” said Alfie.

  “The colour. That’s the name of it, Cotswold Blue.”

  Alfie wondered whether Aunt Augusta had deliberately chosen that colour of car, and decided that she probably had.

  “If Mr Savile doesn’t have anything urgent for me, I can get on with it pretty quickly. Where is it at the moment?”

  “Bunburry,” said Alfie, describing the location of Aunt Augusta’s garage and handing over the garage key.

  “I’ll get it picked up ASAP.”

  “It doesn’t have seatbelts,” said Alfie.

  “That’s okay,” said Mike. “You don’t have to have them if that’s how it was built. The only thing is that you’re not allowed to carry children under three in it.”

  “But I’d like seatbelts,” said Alfie.

  Mike raised an eyebrow. “Are you sure? That could be a problem when you come to sell it. It ruins the original look.”

  Had Vivian been wearing a seatbelt? Surely she couldn’t have been so reckless as to set off without putting it on. Alfie had never asked, had never been able to bring himself to read the details on the death certificate.

  “I’d like seatbelts,” he repeated. “Is it possible to fit
them?”

  “Anything’s possible for the right price,” said Mike with a broad grin. “I’ll check the car over, but if it’s structurally sound, I should be able to fit brackets without too much problem. Come back on Wednesday and I’ll have a better idea of the timescale.”

  “In the meantime, Alfie needs a car to get around in. Can you fix him up with something?” asked David.

  “No, really, I’m fine,” said Alfie, but found himself ignored by both David and Mike.

  The mechanic sucked in his breath. “I don’t have another Jag at the moment, sorry.” He gestured towards the BMW on the hydraulic lift. “But I’ve got a Beemer very like that one. Or I could do you a Lambo for a very reasonable price.”

  Alfie shook his head. “I’m not looking for anything like that. All I want is a little runaround. Something basic.”

  It was Mike’s turn to shake his head. “No can do, I’m afraid. This is a strictly high-end business.”

  “Are you sure, Alfie?” asked David. “That doesn’t sound very interesting. Why don’t you have a look at the Lamborghini?”

  He couldn’t say he had no intention of getting any car at all, that he never planned to drive again.

  “I’m still not used to these narrow roads of yours. I don’t want anything too big.”

  “Tell you what,” said Mike, “if you’re really serious, the best person to go to is my old boss at Bunburry Motors, Richard Smith. Tell him I sent you.”

  It sounded genuine enough, but for some reason Alfie felt wary about the suggestion.

  “Okay,” said David, “Bunburry Motors it is. Thanks, Mike. Alfie will be back in his basic car on Wednesday to see how you’re getting on.”

  “No problem, Mr Savile. Good to meet you, Mr McAlister. I’ll give you Mum’s address and number on Wednesday. Seriously, she would love a visit – and she’s a great cook.”