Bunburry--A Murderous Ride Page 4

  “A great cook?” mused David as they walked back to the 4x4. “Perhaps you could ask if you can bring a friend. Right, next stop, Bunburry Motors.”

  “Please don’t trouble, David,” Alfie said. “Just drop me anywhere near the village. I can’t possibly take up your time like this.”

  “Nothing else planned for today,” David reassured him. “Oscar told me to make sure you were fixed up with a car, on pain of being scored off the Christmas card list, so that’s what I shall do.”

  He might have known Oscar was behind this. He couldn’t blame David, who thought he was doing a good deed and had no idea he was being thoroughly manipulated by his old school friend. If the worst came to the worst, he might have to hire a car briefly just to get David off his back, and then return it to the garage as quickly as possible.

  Bunburry Motors, a few miles out of the village on the Cheltenham road, was much less impressive than Mike’s slick operation. Its sign was missing some letters, its paintwork was flaking and the cars in the forecourt could never be described as high-end. That was no indication of the quality of the work, Alfie knew, but it had the air of a business that was struggling.

  David walked in with Alfie and called: “Hello!”

  A bulky middle-aged man with thinning hair and a distrustful expression emerged from an office. “Can I help you?”

  Alfie prepared to explain why he was there, but David apparently thought it was his duty as a local to smooth Alfie’s path, and was already speaking. “Mr Smith? My friend here wants to hire a car for a while, just something basic while his Jaguar is being repaired. Your former employee Mike Melnikov recommended you.”

  Alfie winced. He had had no intention of mentioning Mike, sensing that it would be a bad idea, and the garage owner’s expression proved him right.

  “Did he? Did he indeed? The man who sneaked off with my customer database and my supplier list, and is trying to ruin my business?”

  “Now then, Richard.” A younger woman came out of the office and laid a calming hand on the garage owner’s arm. “You’re not competing in the same market, and he’s not exactly trying to ruin your business if he’s sending you new customers.”

  She was wearing overalls, her hair was hidden under a baseball cap, and there were smudges of oil on her face, but she was extremely attractive. Alfie decided this quite dispassionately, as though she was a painting in a gallery. Now that he had lost Vivian, he couldn’t imagine ever wanting any other woman.

  Richard Smith looked as though he was inclined to argue, but Alfie saw the woman’s grip on his arm tighten and he said nothing.

  She smiled at Alfie and David. “Did you say you were looking for a car to hire? Let me show you what’s available.”

  “Thank you, Ms —?”

  “Beth. I’m the —”

  “Grease monkey,” muttered Richard Smith under his breath.

  “Yes, I work here as a mechanic,” she said without rancour. “I’m also the wife of the owner. Would you like to have a look at the cars?”

  Alfie and David followed her out of the garage and Richard Smith kept close behind. Alfie wondered whether he thought anyone sent by Mike was likely to steal the cars as well as the customer database and supplier list.

  Alfie glanced round briefly and made for the smallest car he could see. “This should be fine.”

  “Are you sure?” asked David. “I would say you’re too tall for it.”

  “I think this would suit you better,” said Beth, moving over to a much bigger car.

  Alfie stayed where he was. “Could I try this?”

  She didn’t argue but let him sit in it. David was right: it was cramped even in the driver’s seat. But he could see the mirrors perfectly well, and it wasn’t as though he was planning on driving it.

  “This one will do,” he said, ignoring David’s look of scepticism.

  “How long will you want it for?” asked Beth.

  “I would say at least a fortnight to be on the safe side,” said David.

  “It won’t be anything like that long,” said Alfie breezily. “I’ll take it for a week.”

  “Then let’s sort out the paperwork,” Beth said, heading in the direction of the office.

  David fished his own car keys out of his pocket. “I’ll leave you to it. You must come round some time for dinner and stay over.”

  Alfie hadn’t been thinking straight. He had somehow convinced himself that he would hire the car, David would drive him back to Bunburry, and he need never see the hire car again. But now he was being abandoned on the Cheltenham road, and there would be no alternative but to drive himself back to Windermere Cottage.

  He managed to say: “Thanks for all your help – I appreciate it.”

  David glanced at the unprepossessing vehicle. “I don’t feel I’ve been any help.”

  Alfie felt in his pocket and produced the cellophane bag of fudge that he’d bought in the tearoom. “You really have. I hope you enjoy this.”

  “Is it —?”

  Smiling, Alfie nodded.

  David ripped off the red ribbon, opened the bag and popped a square of Liz’s fudge into his mouth. He closed his eyes in bliss. “Oh, that’s good,” he mumbled. “I can’t believe I didn’t know it existed.”

  “It’s a well-kept local secret. But I know the maker and the distributor.”

  “Really? Do they take orders from individuals?”

  “I’m certain they do. I’ll put them in touch with you.”

  They shook hands and David drove off, the fudge apparently having made up for Alfie’s appalling taste in hire cars. Alfie joined Beth in the office and produced the necessary documentation, including his driving licence. Richard seemed to be working unnecessarily noisily on a car in the garage, with a great deal of clanking and heavy sighing.

  “I’m sorry David mentioned Mike Melnikov,” said Alfie in an undertone. “It wasn’t very tactful.”

  Beth half-smiled. “It’s okay. He worked for us for a couple of years, but it was always clear he was going to do his own thing. He’s got a big contract for a collection of vintage cars, and he’ll look after them very well. If you don’t mind my asking, why did you go to him?”

  “I wanted him to take a look at an old car I’ve got that hasn’t been driven for a long time.” Alfie showed her the photograph and she looked at it longingly.

  “That’s exactly the sort of car I’d love to work on, but we can’t do everything. Ordinary Bunburry cars are our bread and butter.”

  She must have caught Alfie’s slightly embarrassed expression. “You’ve done the right thing going to Mike. He’s an excellent mechanic, and his garage has all the latest equipment. I just sometimes want to get my hands on something different.”

  She gave the car keys to Alfie and walked him through the garage.

  “Thank you,” Alfie called to Richard and a muttered reply came through the clanking.

  And then he was in the car, he was turning the key in the ignition, he was forcing himself to put the car in gear and drive off, under the watchful gaze of Beth Smith. His hands were clamped tight round the steering wheel to stop them shaking, and his teeth were clenched. He had been driving for almost twenty-five years without a single accident, and now he felt utterly terrified. The mere glimpse of another car in the distance had him hugging the grass verge. He felt himself leaning over towards the passenger side in a bid to make himself less vulnerable to passing traffic.

  He would return to Bunburry by the back roads where there was less chance of meeting other vehicles. The most likely thing he would meet would be a tractor and he would be more than happy to match its sedate pace. He turned off the Cheltenham road, took another turning, and to his horror found himself following signs for the motorway. He couldn’t go on a motorway. Vivian had died on a motorway.

  Panicked, he stopp
ed by a farm track, threw the car into reverse, and headed back the way he had come, back on to the road. It was getting busier, and he found himself flinching every time another vehicle came close. Cars and vans shot past along the opposite carriageway and he dropped his speed more and more. There was angry tooting and he realised a queue had built up behind him. The road wasn’t wide enough to allow for easy overtaking, but try as he might, Alfie couldn’t drive any faster. His brow felt damp, and he felt the strength ebbing from his shoulders and arms. He continued crawling along, and the angry tooting continued. And then in his rear-view mirror he saw flashing blue lights. The drivers behind him slowed, and the drivers on the other side of the road halted, to allow the police car through.

  It overtook Alfie and then stayed in front of him until they approached a layby. It signalled that it was pulling in. Alfie wasn’t sure what was going on. He wasn’t even sure that the police car had anything to do with him. But he stopped behind it just in case.

  A large policeman with a florid complexion and thinning hair, his tunic straining over his belly, eased himself out of the car and strolled across to Alfie, motioning to him to wind down the window.

  “Good afternoon, sir,” he said. The greeting sounded more threatening than anything else, the officer’s voice gruff and unfriendly. “If you would turn off your engine. Do you know what speed you were going at?”

  Alfie gaped at him. “I wasn’t speeding.”

  “Indeed you were not, sir. You were travelling at well under the speed limit.”

  “But I thought the speed limit was a maximum?”

  The policeman didn’t respond to this directly. Instead he said: “May I have your name and address?”

  “What is this about?”

  “Name and address, please, sir.”

  Alfie had an ingrained respect for the police so, despite his bafflement, he provided both.

  “And driving licence and insurance details, sir. If you do not have them with you, you are required to produce them at a police station within seven days.”

  Alfie fished out the documentation and handed it over, to the policeman’s obvious disappointment.

  “Thank you, sir.” He managed to make the word “sir” sound like a term of disparagement. “I’m issuing you with an on-the-spot fine of one hundred pounds for careless driving.”

  “You’re joking!” Alfie burst out.

  “I find nothing amusing in the situation at all, sir.”

  “But I would have expected a warning, not a fine.”

  “Would you really, sir? Our expectations aren’t always met. If you would sign the penalty notice here. You will not get a criminal conviction if you pay the penalty, but if you disagree with the notice, you can ask for a trial.”

  “But what am I supposed to have done wrong?”

  “Didn’t you hear me, sir? Careless driving. There could have been a serious accident if one of the drivers you were holding up had attempted to overtake you.”

  “But nobody did. There wasn’t any accident,” Alfie protested.

  “You were inconveniencing other road users, many of whom would be travelling in connection with their work. I understand you don’t work, sir, but try to be more considerate to those who have to make a living.”

  Alfie stared at him. “What – how do you know that?”

  “I make it my business to know about newcomers to my patch.”

  This must be Emma’s boss. “Sergeant Wilson? I’m a friend of Emma’s – I mean, Constable Hollis.”

  “That’s odd, sir. When we’ve discussed you, she’s never said that you were friends.”

  This man seemed determined to discompose him at every turn. Alfie realised that there was nothing to be solved by prolonging the conversation. “Where would you like me to sign?”

  “So, you’re waiving your right to seek a trial, sir? I suppose a man of your means won’t miss a mere one hundred pounds.”

  Alfie refused to allow himself to be goaded. “If I’ve committed an offence, then I accept the penalty.”

  “I can assure you, sir, you’ve committed an offence. Drive carefully, sir, but a little faster than previously.” Harold Wilson ambled back to the patrol car and drove off.

  Alfie put the window back up but didn’t turn the engine back on. He tried to process what had just happened. It felt as though the sergeant had it in for him, but how was that possible when they had never met? As for “discussing” him with Emma, that sounded more than improbable. Presumably Emma had simply mentioned that Windermere Cottage was no longer vacant.

  If Sergeant Wilson really did check out anybody new to the village, Alfie was easily found on the internet – he had been embarrassed to find he had his own Wikipedia entry. It detailed the growth of his start-up and how he had sold it for a considerable sum. Drawing on reports in the financial press, it would log that he hadn’t yet returned to the business world. He must check it to see whether it disclosed that he had been born in Bunburry.

  Had he really been going so slowly that he was a danger to other traffic? Should he leave the car in the layby and ring Marge for a lift? No, that would be too humiliating, and he had no idea whether it was legal to leave the car where it was – he didn’t want another encounter with Sergeant Wilson.

  Gritting his teeth, he started the engine and put the car in gear. He forced himself to get up to 30mph, which felt dangerously fast. At last he reached Bunburry, where the narrow streets let him drop to twenty. Jasmine Cottage was closer than his own home and he decided to stop there on the pretext of showing Liz and Marge the car.

  “So where did you get this pretty thing?” asked Liz as they inspected it.

  “I picked it up at Bunburry Motors.”

  “That’s my garage,” said Marge. “I would have said to mention my name in the hope of a discount, but I don’t think Richard’s in the habit of giving discounts.”

  “It’s too cold to stand around here,” said Liz. “Come inside, Alfie. Emma’s coming round for supper, and there’s plenty for four.”

  He suspected that the studied casualness with which she issued the invitation meant that she was still trying to play matchmaker. But this could be just the excuse he wanted. Liz and Marge were generous not only with food but also with alcohol, meaning he would have to leave the car behind, hopefully for ever.

  “That would be lovely, thanks,” he said.

  Once they were settled with a pre-dinner gin, Marge asked what had happened to the Jaguar.

  “It’s getting checked out by another garage that specialises in classic and vintage cars. The owner’s called Mike Melnikov.”

  “Richard’s old apprentice?” exclaimed Marge. “I knew he’d gone, but I didn’t know where. He’s a good mechanic, and a real charmer. Maybe I should take my business to him.”

  “I don’t think a ten-year-old hatchback quite qualifies as vintage,” said Alfie. “He made it very clear that he’s into the high end of the market. That’s why I couldn’t hire a car from him.”

  “Why not?” asked Liz. “Couldn’t he give you something similar to Gussie’s Jaguar?”

  He had walked straight into that. “The country roads,” he floundered. “While I’m finding my way round, I just wanted something small. Then it won’t be an anti-climax when I drive Aunt Augusta’s car.”

  He wasn’t sure whether they believed him.

  “Did you see Beth?” asked Liz.

  “I did,” said Alfie. “Very attractive.” If they thought he went around checking out married women, they might decide he was no good for Emma and leave him alone.

  “I don’t like the way Richard talks to her – and about her,” said Liz, apparently ignoring his remark. “I wish Marge would find another garage.”

  “I don’t think much of the way Richard behaves either,” said Marge. “But it’s the closest garage there is,
we’re supporting a local business, and it’s Beth’s livelihood as well – she’s not only a full-time mechanic, she’s the one who keeps on top of the admin.”

  “Richard said Mike had stolen his client and supplier lists and was trying to put him out of business,” Alfie reported.

  “Oh, that man,” said Marge wearily, getting up and heading towards the gin bottle. “He always has to complain about something. Top up, Alfie? No? How about you, Liz? No? Well, I’ll —”

  “No, you won’t,” said Liz. “We’re having supper as soon as Emma arrives, and she should be here any minute now.”

  Marge reluctantly returned to her rocking chair. “Richard Smith does insist on looking on the black side,” she said.

  “Pot, kettle, dear,” said Liz.

  “You can’t begin to compare me with Richard Smith!” retorted Marge. “A pessimist may never be disappointed, but he takes misery to a whole new level. If he won the Lottery, he’d complain that there weren’t enough hours in the day to count his money. I’m sure Beth didn’t say the business was about to fold.”

  “No,” agreed Alfie, “she sounded perfectly happy, and didn’t seem to think they were in competition with Mike.”

  The doorbell rang, with its pleasantly old-fashioned ding-dong sound, quite unlike Aunt Augusta’s doorbell, which played the Hallelujah Chorus. Liz went to answer it and they heard her give a cry of dismay.

  “My poor girl! What on earth happened to you?”

  Emma came into the sitting room, her left arm in a sling, pursued by an anxious Liz.

  “It looks worse than it is – the sling is only there to remind me not to use my arm. It’s just a fracture.”

  “Just a fracture!” Liz fussed round Emma, making her sit down in an armchair.

  “The hospital was very pleased with it. There’s been no movement of the bones, so all I need is this cool wrist splint – I think it makes me look bionic.” She displayed a black brace stretching from her fingers to just below her elbow.

  “You still haven’t told us how you did it,” Liz said.

  “My own fault, I fell over my own feet,” said Emma. “I had a bit of a tussle with a twocker when I was trying to put the handcuffs on him. But I still managed to keep hold of him and cuff him.”