Give The Devil His Due (31 page)

       It was June again. She was looking even more flustered than she had a few moments earlier. ‘Sorry to bother you Doctor Sherry, but if you could come now? It's Mr Ashton. I think he's having a heart attack.’

       ‘OK June,
I told you
I'll be right there!’ With that June closed the door again.

       ‘That sounds serious,’ I said.

       ‘Oh Ashton. That whinger's always in here on the scrounge for sick notes. He really gets on my wick. I bet the old fucker's faking it – ‘cause we're running a bit late on appointment times today.’

       This was my cue to go. I stood up, said goodbye and thanked her for the appointment, closing the door behind me. I left Natalie still drinking her coffee.

       Waddling carefully through the corridor, trying my best not to create any more spillage, I entered the waiting room en route to the surgery front door. There was a man lying on the floor, his face blue and several surgery staff fussing around him. They were trying to get him to breathe through an oxygen mask.

       My guess was that this was none other than the bone-idle Oscar nominee, Mr Ashton. I resisted the temptation of telling him what a lazy fucker he was and to wait his turn for an appointment like everyone else. Me, I had more important fish to fry.

       I made my way out of the surgery and into the car park where my chariot awaited. Next stop was Tesco's pharmacy and frozen food department – a man, his prescription and a long-overdue liaison with a bag of frozen petit pois.

Chapter 24

The bad news: Tesco’s was packed and the queues at the checkouts were taking forever. The good news: they’d got the cream. The really good news: there were more packets of petit pois in their freezers than you could shake a newly-fisted arse at.

       I drove home, suffering but excited. Before very long I was going to become a cured man. As I turned into the street, there was a van outside my house. It belonged to a mate of mine, Gavin Gittings, full-time plumber, part-time rock star wannabe. I parked up and got out of the car, Gavin walked over. I greeted him. ‘Hi.’

       ‘How goes it friend?’

       ‘Not too bad Gavin.’

       ‘Doesn’t look that way from where I’m standing. You look like you’re in some pain my man.’

       ‘Oh that, yeah. I’ve just been to the doctor’s. Got a bit of a pile-thing, you know.’

       ‘No I don’t. Never had ‘em myself. I am, as they say, too healthy for my own good.’

       ‘Believe me you don’t want ‘em.’ We walked to the front door and went inside. Gavin got straight to the point.

       ‘So is it still happening then?’

       ‘Yeah. It’s really getting on my nerves, and if it’s getting on mine, it’ll be getting on his next door.’ I pointed at Dave’s house. The knocking of the pipes every time someone flushed the bog had become intolerable. I just hoped Gavin could fix it.

       Gavin went into the bathroom and flushed. It started again. He walked back down the stairs, waving his adjustable spanner in time with the knocking. He’d obviously gone into music-mode.

       ‘Kind of rhythmical, don’t you think?’

       ‘Not really Gav. It’s just a bloody racket. Is it fixable?’

       ‘Well, it’s not always that straightforward with these kinds of jobs.’ He was going from music-mode back into plumber-mode. I could feel a bit of upping-the-price coming on.

       ‘Look Gav, I’m going to have a lie-down for quarter of an hour. Can you do your best?’

       ‘Will my friend, I shall bring all my professional expertise to bear on the problem.’ By the sounds of that statement he was moving from plumber-mode into extremely-expensive-consultant-plumber-mode.

       Inside the bedroom, I closed the door and put the Tesco bag on the bed. I’d told a white lie to Gavin. I was going for a lie down; I just failed to tell him the frozen produce was joining me.

       As I lay there on my stomach I could hear Gav while he worked away. He was running in and out of the house, flushing the toilet, listening to banging pipes, running outside, adjusting the water pressure in the street, back into the house, flushing again. I could hear the tools clanking, more flushing and so it went on. After about half an hour it sounded like he’d sorted it.

       I got up. My arse was soaking and the frozen pois had defrosted. The bed was damp. I pulled my trousers on and went downstairs. Gavin was putting his tools away.

       ‘How much do I owe you Gav?’ Gavin was moving his head from side to side and mouthing silently pretending to calculate some sort of figure.

       ‘Eighty quid.’

       ‘EIGHTY QUID? That’s a bit bloody steep Gav.’

       ‘All right, seeing as it’s you. We’ll call it seventy, but don’t tell anyone.’

       Seventy quid was still pretty heavy as far as I was concerned, but he had turned up when I called and he had fixed the problem, so I got the money out. If I didn’t pay him what he asked, he might not turn up next time I called him and what if I had a burst pipe? I handed him the notes.

       ‘Thanks mate. Oh, before I go, I want to show you something.’ He took his tools out to his van and came back with a long plastic case. We went into the lounge.

       ‘Take a look at this.’ He put the case down on the floor beside a chair, and opened it, then carefully and lovingly lifted its occupant up for me to see. Like a gushing father holding a new-born baby for the first time, he stood there, electric guitar in hand. ‘What do you think?’

       ‘Nice.’ I wasn't really much up on electric guitars. If it had been a keyboard or a piano I'd have stood a fighting chance of identifying it. ‘What is it?’ I asked in ignorance.

       ‘This, my soon-to-be-informed friend, is a 1961 Gibson Firebird III.’ I was still none the wiser. ‘Cost me three and a half grand.’

       Oh well, at least now I knew how much he'd paid for it. I made a mental note: must check on what other plumbers in the local area were charging. He then lifted the guitar up to his face and started making very fast clitoral-licking movements with his tongue towards the instrument. ‘You’re pleased with it then,’ I said.

       ‘Yes, it is an example of the finest craftsmanship; a thing of rare beauty indeed and together we shall …
kick some fucking arse!
’

       Gav put the strap over his head, bent his knees and pointed the sharp end at me. He put the bass of the guitar on to his crotch, making Pete Townshend-type windmill swings with his right arm.

       Engrossed in his utopian guitar world, he was now holding the business end using his right hand while simulating guitar neck masturbation with his left. He turned to me. ‘Listen, my band's got a gig two weeks Wednesday. Fancy coming along?’

       ‘I don't know. I might be working.’

       ‘Go on, you’ll enjoy it. I'll be putting this little baby through her paces.’

       ‘Maybe.’

       He was now looking at a photo of Tegan I’d framed and put up on the mantelpiece. ‘Bring your woman; let her see what a
real
man in action looks like.’ He gave a salacious lick of his lips while grinning at me.

       ‘I'll try, as long as you don't make any jokes about me through the mic.’

       ‘Would I do that to you?’ He would, and he had – during the last gig I made the mistake of going to. I looked at Gavin, who was now slowly but lovingly stroking his new guitar. He started putting it away in the same careful manner that he’d taken it out.

       ‘So you’re going to come then?’

       ‘We’ll see.’

       ‘Nice one!’ He’d obviously taken that as a
yes
. I walked him to his van. He shoved a flyer in my hand advertising his gig. I had to admit I was tempted to go and listen to his three and half grand axe; well at least, to the seventy quid I’d just contributed towards it.

Wednesday Evening, South Wales
Tegan seemed to be feeling better, having got over the initial shock of her impending unemployment. She’d started to see the positives. John had been down to visit the day before and that’d given her spirits a lift.

       My roids were feeling a lot better, the only downside being I'd had to commandeer a drawer in Tegan's freezer for my petit pois. She wouldn't let the packet sit next to anything else. She also insisted on sticking a
Post-it
note to the packet with DO NOT EAT scrawled all over it. The pois, working in conjunction with Natalie’s wonder cream, seemed to be doing the trick, so perhaps she wasn't such a bad girl after all.

       Preparations for the operation were going OK. Neil had broached the subject of dog-doping with Denise, and she’d agreed to help. Phil informed us that he'd completed the stick-on boat transfers and would be joining Peachy and Vaughan as third crew member at the weekend.

       I couldn't arrange a van until we had a concrete idea of when they would all arrive near Shoreborough. We assumed it would be in about ten days, but until I got the phone call from Peach telling me they were within a day or so of the destination, I didn't want to throw good money away hiring something we weren't yet ready to use. If I had to be honest, things were going more or less to plan.

       Later that evening, I had an unexpected phone call from Peach.

       ‘Will, it's me.’

       ‘Peachy, how's it going? Has Vaughan sunk your boat yet?’

       ‘No, we're still floating, just!’ I was guessing there must be a problem for him to ring so soon. Either that or they'd thought of something extra we'd have to bring along for the heist.

       ‘Is everything OK Peach?’

       ‘Well no, not really.’

       ‘What's the matter then?’ I asked.

       ‘I've had a call today from Peter Steadman.’

       ‘Oh?’

       ‘Yeah, he reckons he's getting funny phone calls.’

       ‘What kind of funny?’

       ‘The silence-on-the-other-end type. He thinks someone's watching him.’

       ‘What … you mean like spying?’

       ‘Yeah, he thinks he's seen a car parked nearby, with someone inside, looking at his house.’

       ‘Well that could be anything. Probably someone waiting for one of his neighbours.’

       ‘That's what I said to him. Look, you can't do me an enormous favour can you?’

       I had a sneaky feeling what was coming. ‘How enormous?’

       ‘Could you go with Neil to Steadman's and reassure him. I could go. I know as the crow flies I'm closer, but we're making good time and I don't want to break our journey if I can help it.’ This made sense.

       ‘The thing is, Will, you have to remember that even though we've got a contract with Peter, we still need him onside to get a court judgment. Assuming we find the document, Peter has to be the one that mounts a legal challenge against the De Villiers empire. If he's freaked out, things could end up bollocksed.’ I listened as Peach continued with his concerns.

       A drive to London would be a pain in the arse, especially as I was trying to get some money in before the trek to Staffordshire. ‘You don't think his worries have any foundation then Peach?’

       ‘No, I think he's just insecure. He hasn't heard from us in a little while and he's panicking. A visit from the two of you will set him straight.’

       ‘And Phil’s break-in, what if it's the same people snooping on Steadman?’

       ‘I don't think it will be. I asked Phil and he told me the only info left in his house that night was the Charles De Villiers’ biog. So unless Phil's burglar is also a shit-hot psychic, Steadman's got nothing to worry about.

       ‘Listen, for god's sake, whatever you do don't either of you mention Phil's burglary, 'cause that really
will
frighten him.’

       ‘OK, I'll tell Neil. Give me Steadman's number and I'll ring him. I'll tell him we'll call over tomorrow evening. When we get there shall we give him a little cuddle?’

       ‘No, don't take the piss out of him. Just reassure him.’

       ‘OK Peach.’

       ‘Thanks Will.’

       ‘Is there anything else?’

       ‘No not really.’

       I had a few questions though. ‘How's the trip going?’

       ‘Excellent.’

       ‘How're you getting on with Vaughan?’

       ‘He's cleverer than I thought – in fact he's a fuckin’ smart arse.’

       ‘I take it he's not in earshot then.’

       ‘No.’

       ‘What about his walking?’

       ‘He's getting better. He's only using one crutch now.’

       ‘Oh, that's good,’ I said.

       ‘Look Will, I'd better go, I've left him on the boat and I said I wouldn't be very long. Give me a ring if there's a problem with Peter.’

       ‘OK.’ Peach gave me Steadman's home and office number and hung up.

       So Peter was having some funny phone calls. I wondered if Peach had got it wrong and that it might be connected to Phil's break-in; but the more I thought about it, the more it seemed too far-fetched.

       A flying visit to London was on the cards. With Peachy's boat well on its way to the Midlands there would obviously be no free overnight accommodation. I toyed with the idea of asking Tegan to come, just so she wouldn't feel left out. But then the thought of her sitting in the car at night waiting for us, especially if there was someone dodgy lurking near Peter Steadman's place made me feel uneasy.

       The other option of taking her into the Steadman house would be a big no-no. After all our insistence on secrecy about the whole thing he would definitely see us a bunch of hypocrites if I did that. It was final then – Tegan would have to stay at home.

Thursday 8.35p.m. West London
We weren’t bringing Phil; it would only confuse the issue. Steadman hadn't met him and we were going there to allay his fears, not introduce new friends. Peach had also decided that it was better to err on the side of caution, just in case someone
was
watching Phil's after the break-in.