The Circle Now Is Made (King's Way Book 1) (29 page)

"No problem mate, done it m’self a dozen times. I'm Jim, by the way." The pair shook hands and engaged briefly in conversation, during which it became evident that if the man
was
an imposter, he was a plausible liar with an accent to match. In fact, he seemed so genuine Greg accepted that he'd been mistaken... and would have continued thinking thus if – just at that stage - Jim hadn't insisted on buying him a drink.

“Just another diet coke then please,” consented Greg as he took a seat beneath the window. “I’ve got to drive back to my sister's house yet.”

 “Five pounds and four pence please,” said the barmaid, and it was then that Jim did something unusual for a first time visitor: he took a ten-pound note from his wallet and accompanied it with the odd four pence change. Greg eyes widened as he recalled holidays abroad: how he'd always finished up with pocketfuls of seemingly useless coins, all of which finished up as tips for staff. One seemed to change a note with almost every order, he recalled, until towards the holiday end when the currency was becoming familiar and scarce at equal rates.

The man was no foreigner, Greg decided: he had to be Mel McCaffrey, and had been awaiting an opportunity to follow or even waylay him. Greg was enraged at the man’s gall, and tempted to deal with him there and then. The fact that he now had two adversaries to contend with didn’t ease the situation, either, though after consideration he reasoned that he might turn circumstances to his advantage.

 
If he wants a prat, I’ll give him one.

"Going far tonight?" asked
Jim
after a brief lull.

“I was until a short while ago," replied Greg. "I was planning a bit of a jaunt actually, but luckily I needn't rush back tonight. Good job really; I was going to cut short my stay here just to run an errand for a woman I know."

“A lot depends on the woman and the errand I guess.” The newcomer grinned suggestively. “How was that, then?”

“I collected some gear for her that she wants in a hurry. A couple of blokes I met are dropping it back for me now, though."

"A distance away you say?"

"Near Looe, Cornwall”

"Blimey, I believe that
is
a distance," said the
Aussie
with what seemed little more than polite interest. "These guys are doing you a good turn in that case."

"Yes. Moved down there myself a few weeks ago, but I'm up with my sister at the moment."

 Greg was becoming edgy, and beginning to wonder whether he'd need to stall for time, when he spotted Hud and Ten parking near the Ulster.
Good old Wyndham. If I'd flashed a signal, I couldn’t have expected better timing; their own worst enemies that pair.
 Greg smiled to himself and observed the duo nodding to each other as Ten climbed from the Merc - obviously under the impression that, like his
hearing aid, he was
invisible.
 

Greg looked away from the window and feigned ignorance as Ten, true to form, snatched up the Ulster tonneau and removed a large flat parcel. What he
did
observe was McCaffrey's expression, which told him all he needed. The stranger was suddenly eager to leave.

"Hope I see you again sometime, mate," he said as he downed his beer and made for the door.

"Oh, okay," replied Greg, with apparent disappointment.

*

McCaffrey followed the witless pair until an opportunity arose to overtake then, on passing, forced Hud into a ditch. The duo, fancying
themselves
as the aggressors, were bewildered as McCaffrey leapt from his car.

“I’ll bet anything it’s some bastard fuckin' action man’s paid!” cursed Hud as they scrambled from the wreck. “He left the pub car park at the same time as us." He took a short length of iron pipe from the boot. "Grab the wheel brace there!”

Had it been a fair situation, albeit two to one, there's little doubt Hud and Ten would have come off worst: McCaffrey was both powerful and experienced. Eventually, however, after both sides had taken a battering, the
Aussie
lay in a bloodied heap on the verge; his windows smashed, his car unusable.

"Right!" Hud observed the glowing brake lights of a small saloon as it passed and pulled in some distance ahead. "He's reversing back – grab that tarp in the boot and cover this bastard while I grab the pictures. With luck the Good Samaritan 'ere'll offer us a lift, so
you
were drivin' the other car if he asks… An' if he
don't
offer us a lift, you know the action…" 

 Greg knew nothing of events as he started slowly back along the planned route, with every intention of maintaining a leisurely pace. He didn't dare hope his journey would be without event, but he did have a plan B of sorts.

A few miles into the resumed journey, a small Nissan overtook him at breakneck speed – and on a blind bend!

“Shitheads!” hissed Greg; particularly disturbed to see the front passenger, a woman wearing a scarf it appeared, clutching a baby. It then disappeared into the bends ahead at terrifying speed, so Greg was surprised to have almost caught up again within minutes.

It's almost as if they stopped for a while.

Although his own speed was low, he closed on the vehicle until it was just beyond the range of his headlights.

“What a maniac!” he muttered to Red, safely curled in the passenger well. “Frightened himself and his wife to death, no doubt.” Greg’s eyes left the road briefly as he glanced towards the dog. In that instant he caught sight of something. A white bundle being flung from the car in front.
Not the baby!
He stood on the brakes.
For God’s sake, stop!
Every drain of blood left his face. He staggered from the Ulster. Surveyed the road. Throat too dry to swallow, he looked towards the child's body.

*

Red nuzzled Greg's face in the darkness. An awful, blinding pain radiated from the back of his skull... Two unfurled sports' towels lay on the road in front.

"Scheming
bastards!”
Slowly he stood; straightened himself. “I should have known it was them, Red, they can’t even
nick
a decent car. They've obviously opened the decoy parcel and come back for seconds. Come on,” he said, mildly annoyed that a pair of dimwits had got the better of him, but oddly unruffled. “All is not yet lost - and you at least had the sense to get out.”

Master and dog had walked only a few hundred yards when Greg glimpsed a large, well-lit building through trees.

"There's life around anyway, Red," he said, surprised to find that the building was an imposing pub, set back in a large area of land. “Smart old place,” he observed as he neared the half-timbered inn, noting a Porsche 928 on the half- filled car park.

“They’ve got a good start on us now Red,” Greg said as he eyed the car enviously, “Bit ancient as Porsches go, this one, so I'm betting the owner's something of a poseur. Let's take a look."

Greg strolled coolly into the pub, still surprisingly calm as he ordered a slim-line tonic before sitting with Red to study the situation. “I’d like to catch them before they destroy the pictures.” Red cocked his head quizzically. “…And I've just had an idea that's worth a crack.”

Greg had taken note of the crowd in the pub. The logic that had made him successful had returned with recent sobriety. It reflected in the clarity of his eyes as he carried out a mental appraisal of the occupants. As in the Hamlet Cigar advert of old, seconds stretched like hours as he sipped unhurriedly at his drink.

About half of the twenty or so customers, he noted, were wearing designer sweaters, the other half sporting less expensive though equally smart V necks with motifs. The gathering was further split into roughly three equal groups; one clean-shaven, one moustached, the third wearing beards. The groups weren’t standing in convenient enough order to make their proportions easily identifiable; nor did the type of jumper have any bearing on shaving habits. All, however, drank from tankards, some pewter, some cut-glass, and Greg felt he could almost put an occupation to each of them as they chatted happily away. In very round terms he reckoned about a third would be executive or sales, a third technical and IT, and the remainder a cross-section of local trades and rural workers. These differences were again in no way related or proportional to their other peculiarities: one jolly fellow Greg would have put down as village butcher, and a swarthy, darkly-bearded chap almost certainly ran the local garage, he mused.

“Light, dark, sandy, bald.” Greg smiled and patted Red’s bony head. “Bit like a Mensa test.” One thing most had in common was an almost uncanny uniformity in size and build. “Five-ten to six-foot and medium-large, to a gnat’s dick,” he muttered, finally concluding - correctly - that they were the local cricket team. "Pre-season meeting this is, Red. Most likely to decide who paints the pavilion this year: never any shortage of bods to supply the paint, but a nightmare finding someone to apply it.”

Greg studied the un-uniform uniformity of the crowd again, this time noting there was a latter day Ian Botham among them. Standing by the bar with two other
chaps
, he was rather taller than the rest, and wearing a hand-knitted Cashmere sweater and Gucci shoes. A moustache, highlighted hair, and Marbella tan completed the image.

“Bet he’s the Porsche!” said Greg to his sleepy dog, “only one way to find out.” Greg winked at Red as he stood in readiness to visit the bar again. “If he is, he won’t be able to resist telling me.”

Greg leaned on the bar beside
Botham
and Co, their mobiles and car keys sprawled across the counter as they chatted. The only keys Greg could muster were the tatty caravan ones, though he tossed them carelessly onto the counter as he ordered.

“'Scuse me,” he said, “is that your Focus with the lights on?” The paladin's companions looked down their noses, embarrassed for Greg.

“No,” replied
Botham
curtly. “Mine’s the Porsche!”

Moments later the Porsche leapt panther-like from the car park, Greg fancying it had risen into a wheelie for a split second. Botham found a bunch of brassy keys on the bar – a full hour and two half pints later.

Red nestled in the flamboyantly carpeted foot-well, so accustomed to changes of home and transport he was finding them humdrum. He did give a contented yawn, though, as if to indicate that the standard was more in keeping with expectations. “I don’t suppose they’ll use the motorway, Red,” said Greg hopefully.  “They'll need to maintain a low profile if they’re driving a stolen car apiece." He clicked on the Satnav. "We’ll follow the A466 from Hereford to Chepstow, and pray that’s the route they’ve chosen.”

“You’re very wise,” replied Red, though only with a tired blink of his heavy eyelids.

*

 The pair were south of Bristol; the Porsche still scorching along like a missile, Greg despairing he'd chosen the wrong route.
Why did I apply logic to that pair of dickheads, Red – let alone credit them with the brains to avoid the motorway?

Nevertheless, he reasoned, the lead the duo had - though not vast in time - represented a fair mileage to retrieve - even allowing for the immense difference in vehicles.

Red was by now sitting up; staring through the window like royalty, though Greg suspected he'd have difficulty recognising his own reflection against the fleeting background of shadows. He slowed the car slightly for a bend, and suddenly Red began barking fiercely at the window. The dog then turned his attention to the back window, his front paws on the rear ledge. He barked furiously, his long neck craning into the narrow wedge beneath the sloping window. Despite Red's absurd behaviour, Greg would have continued but for fear of damage to the car: poseur though Botham was, he couldn't allow his dog to damage the treasured vehicle.

“What
is
it?” shouted Greg as the dog barked and bounced violently enough to destabilise the car. “You want to go out?” Greg pulled into the next widened area, and on opening the door was amazed to see the old dog lope anxiously back along the deserted lane. Greg raced after him, though they'd covered some few hundred yards before he discovered the reason for Red’s anxiety.

In a large gap in the hedgerow stood the Ulster, carefully and neatly backed in to the edge of the field. But for the care that had been taken to conceal if from passers-by, Greg would have assumed the car to have simply been dumped and the Nissan used from that point.

“No,” Greg whispered to Red. “They'd have just ditched it and bolted if they
had
dumped it. They're still around.”

Greg felt the bonnet. It was warm. Groped for the keys. Still there!

“Stay, Red!” whispered Greg on removing the keys. He knew the dog would guard the car whatever the temptations as he made for the height of a nearby mound, vaguely outlined in the darkness.

It was a calm, mild night, the lull after the storm having settled on the silent countryside, no more noise than a few distant lambs bleating. At the top of the mound, Greg paused momentarily to savour the dew-laden breeze. He saw nothing, and made his way back towards the Ulster. Then he stopped. Certain he'd detected the smell of wood-smoke! He stood and listened again. Voices. Faint and vague, but definitely voices. A sweet wisp of fruit-wood smoke, probably blackberry, floated up the bank and almost into his face. Greg followed the direction from where the smoke-laden breeze had drifted. Suddenly he caught a flicker of fire.
They're never camping out?
Slowly, almost painfully so, Greg approached the cluster of bushes from where the glow came - and saw Hud and Ten, crouched over the flames. They were burning the
second
package Greg had
concealed
beneath the tonneau.