The Detection Collection Page 13

  He was probably right. They walked on in silence. Then Patrick spoke.

  ‘We’ll have got tickets for overstaying our time in the car park,’ he said.

  They had.

  TOUPEE FOR A BALD TYRE

  A Misadventure from the Motor Trade Years of Harry Barnett

  Robert Goddard

  Swindon, 24 September 1970

  If he had stayed in the pub, even for another five minutes, it probably would have been all right. Rillington had more or less said as much, which only made the thought more tantalising. Another five minutes; another pint; another gently blurred afternoon: for once, they would have added up to prudent business practice. Instead, Harry had returned dutifully, if far from soberly, to Barnchase Motors at half past two that afternoon – and found a visitor waiting for him.

  ‘I was just about to give up on you, Mr Barnett,’ Rillington explained, smiling thinly.

  Harry sensed it was the only kind of smile that ever crossed his face. Rillington was a lean, sombre, narrow-eyed man of sixty or so, grey-suited, grey-haired, grey-skinned. On the early-morning train journey to work that Harry imagined him taking, he would attract no one’s attention, draw no one’s glance, challenge no one’s preconceptions. Yet here, seated stiffly on the other side of Harry’s desk, briefcase clasped flatly in his lap, pursed lips emphasising his trimmed moustache, he did pose some kind of challenge. That much was already certain.

  ‘Your secretary didn’t seem to think it was worth my while waiting.’

  ‘No?’ Harry caught Jackie’s eye through the glass partition between his office and the outer room where she fitted occasional typing and telephone-answering into her nail-filing regime. Her devotedly plucked eyebrows arched meaningfully. ‘She must have misunderstood. With my partner away for the day—’

  ‘That would be Mr Chipchase.’

  ‘Yes. He, er …’

  ‘Is cheering on a horse at Newbury even as we speak, I dare say.’

  ‘Ah, you—’

  ‘Your secretary mentioned he was … entertaining some clients at the races.’

  Clients? If only, Harry thought. But all he said was, ‘Quite,’ grinning manfully and shooting a glare at Jackie, who by chance or contrivance was no longer looking in his direction. His gaze reverted glumly to Rillington’s card, which lay before him on the blotter, forming a small oblong of orderly typography in a jungle of scrawled telephone numbers, jotted mark-up calculations and obscene doodles.

  C.E. Rillington

  Motor Repairs Standards Assessor

  H.M. Ministry of Transport

  St Christopher House

  LONDON SEI

  Tel: 01–928–7999

  ‘So what can I … do for you, Mr Rillington?’

  ‘I’d like you to clarify a few points for me, Mr Barnett.’

  ‘Oh yes?’ Harry lit a cigarette, hoping he would appear what the advertisements for the brand promised – as cool as a mountain stream – but gravely doubting it. ‘Smoke?’ He proffered the pack to Rillington.

  ‘I prefer a pipe.’

  ‘Well …’

  ‘Shall we get on, Mr Barnett? I’m sure we’re both busy people.’

  ‘Right.’ Harry took a spluttering draw on the cigarette. ‘Of course.’

  ‘I popped into your workshop while I was waiting.’

  ‘You did?’

  ‘Young fellow called Vince showed me around.’

  ‘Excellent.’ I’ll strangle Vince with a fan-belt, thought Harry. Slowly. ‘Helpful lad.’

  ‘Indeed. Not that he could help me with the … statistics of your operation.’

  ‘No?’

  ‘Your province, I rather think. Yours and … Mr Chipchase’s.’

  ‘Statistics, Mr Rillington? I’m not …’

  ‘They can be the very devil, I find. But they tell a story. There’s been a push to apply them to my field in particular since this government came into office. Computers are the future, Mr Barnett. We’re only nibbling at the edges of what they can achieve.’

  ‘Really? I don’t know much about that kind of—’

  ‘Take the Korek, for example. Feed its findings to a computer and—’

  ‘The what?’

  ‘The Korek, Mr Barnett. Not heard of it?’

  ‘Dr Who’s latest enemy?’

  ‘Very amusing.’ Rillington looked anything but amused. ‘It’s a machine that pulls out crushed car bodies, using air-operated rams to reverse the effects of a crash. We can then check the manufacturer’s dimensions against the final size and shape.’

  ‘Amazing.’

  ‘And revealing. If the car fails to reach those dimensions, it’s generally because it never did. Now, why might that be, do you suppose?’

  ‘Can’t imagine.’

  ‘You’re aware of the disreputable practice of welding together the intact halves of two damaged cars to produce what looks, to the hapless buyer’s eye, like a pristine ready-to-drive-away bargain?’

  ‘Well, I …’

  ‘The Korek finds that trick out every time.’

  ‘Does it?’ Harry distractedly tapped ash off his cigarette and locked eyes hopelessly with Monsieur Michelin, who beamed up at him from his perch on the rim of the ashtray. ‘How very clever of it.’

  ‘Now, taken together with a separate investigation of tyre blow-outs where the driver, if he or she is lucky enough to emerge in one piece, reports recently fitting remoulds which, upon inspection—’

  ‘What have remoulds got to do with body welding?’

  ‘At first glance, nothing, Mr Barnett. But therein lies the beauty of the computer. It correlates the statistics, you see. It crunches the numbers and spits out … overlaps.’

  ‘Overlaps?’

  ‘Common sources … of cars that fail the Korek test … and tyres that have been remoulded a couple of times too many. At least a couple of times.’

  ‘I see.’ Dimly and queasily, Harry did indeed begin to see. The blind eye he had long turned to Chipchase’s profitable innovations on the repair front had suddenly descried a disturbing vision.

  ‘Bad luck? Bad workmanship? Or something more sinister? That’s what we’re bound to ask ourselves when the statistics point us so compellingly to a particular garage.’

  ‘Well, I …’ Harry puffed out his cheeks. ‘I suppose you would be.’

  ‘Vince and his less talkative colleague … Joe is it?’

  ‘That’s right.’

  ‘They both seemed competent enough to me. Capable, even. Well capable.’

  ‘Oh … good.’

  ‘And I don’t believe in luck.’

  ‘You don’t?’

  ‘Which brings us—’

  ‘Here’s that tea I promised you, Mr Rillington,’ trilled Jackie, as she toed the door abruptly open and entered with a tray bearing two cups and saucers and a plate of digestive biscuits. ‘And coffee for you, Mr Barnett.’ Mr Barnett? Jackie was evidently on her best behaviour, a small mercy for which Harry could not summon much gratitude. ‘Black, I reckoned. Was that right?’

  ‘Spot on,’ mumbled Harry, noticing as Jackie plonked the tray down on the desk that Rillington’s gaze left him and slid appreciatively up Jackie’s long and shapely legs to the hem of her miniskirt, which at that moment Harry judged could scarcely be concealing very much. The man was evidently not immune to temptation. A chink in his armour, perhaps? But a small chink, in evidently thick armour.

  Jackie minced out. Rillington’s eyes swung back to Harry. ‘Sugar?’ Harry ventured.

  ‘No thank you.’

  ‘Biscuit?’

  ‘Just the tea, I think.’ Rillington took a sip.

  ‘Righto.’ A gulp of strong black coffee cleared the last of the beery fug from Harry’s brain. But clarity did not furnish inspiration. ‘So, where, er … were we?’

  ‘How long have you and Mr Chipchase been in business together, Mr Barnett?’

  ‘It’s, er … five years now.’

  ‘Did
you take this place over from someone else?’

  ‘Knight’s Motorcycles. They, er … went bust.’

  ‘And how long had they been in business?’

  ‘Oh, seven or eight years. Until the late fifties there were fields here. The Belmont Brewery used to graze their dray-horses—’ Harry broke off, smiling awkwardly. ‘I’m sure you don’t want a local history lesson.’

  Rillington turned and squinted out through the window into the serried ranks of Barnchase Motors’ used cars, gleaming in the sunshine on the forecourt laid where Harry had once as a child fed carrot-tops to Belmont’s magnificent beasts of burden. ‘Sounds like a veritable lost Eden,’ Rillington murmured.

  ‘I wouldn’t go that far.’

  ‘And we can’t turn back the clock anyway, can we, Mr Barnett?’

  ‘’Fraid not.’

  ‘Good Lord.’ Rillington’s squint honed itself into a concentrated peer. ‘Is that an E-Type you have out there?’

  ‘Yes. I, er … believe it is.’ A midnight-blue 1962 Jaguar E-Type 3.8, to be precise. A snip at four hundred and ninety-nine guineas. A snip, indeed, at whatever price Rillington might be willing to pay. ‘Fancy a test drive?’ Harry asked impulsively.

  ‘I wouldn’t mind … taking a look.’ A tinge of pleasurable anticipation had crossed Rillington’s face. He sipped his tea, but his eyes remained fixed on the shimmering come-hither bonnet of the E-Type. Here was a second chink in his armour, one Harry was far better placed to exploit than the fleshy allurement of Jackie Fleetwood. ‘I wouldn’t mind at all.’

  No more than a few minutes later, the two men were seated side by side in the car, Rillington’s hands sliding slowly round the steering-wheel while Harry jingled the ignition key against the Jaguar’s-head fob in what he judged to be a tempting tintinnabulation.

  ‘Nought to sixty in seven seconds,’ he purred. ‘Top speed of a hundred and fifty. Really blows the cobwebs away.’

  ‘I’m sure,’ said Rillington.

  ‘I could do a very special deal … for someone in your position.’

  ‘No doubt.’

  ‘What do you normally drive, Mr Rillington?’

  ‘A Hillman Imp.’

  ‘Well … need I say more?’

  ‘Probably not.’

  ‘Why don’t you take her for a spin?’

  ‘It’s an idea.’ Rillington smiled, less thinly than before, and moved his left hand from the steering-wheel towards the dangled ignition key. ‘But not as good as my idea.’ His hand froze.

  ‘Sorry?’

  ‘Once my report on this place hits the appropriate desk, you’ll be for the high jump, Harry.’ Harry? ‘You and your racegoing chum, Barry. It could be a police matter. It could be … the end of the line.’

  Harry swallowed hard. ‘Surely … not.’

  ‘Oh yes.’

  ‘But …’

  ‘Cut as many corners as you have here and, sooner or later, you’re bound to come to grief.’

  ‘But …’

  ‘Fortunately for you, there’s a way out.’

  ‘There is?’

  ‘And it doesn’t involve me taking this overpowered heap of junk off your hands.’

  ‘No?’

  ‘No. It involves something more … recherché. Which isn’t French for remould.’

  ‘I, er … don’t …’

  ‘Need to say a thing. Just listen. While I tell you a little story.’ Rillington leant back in his seat. ‘I used to do a bit of cycling, you know. Took it seriously. CTC membership. Fifty miles every weekend. Eighty every other. Proper racing bike. No half measures. Then, one Sunday morning, the bike let me down. The gears seized solid. There wasn’t a thing I could do with it. I hadn’t got far, so I wheeled it home, planning to strip it down in the garage. I got back several hours before I was due, of course. Bit of a surprise for the wife. More of one for me, though. I caught her with the husband of one of her Townswomen’s Guild friends. In a compromising position, you might say. Very compromising. In fact, so compromising I’d never even thought of it. An eye-opener. Yes. You could certainly call it that. Now, why am I telling you this pitiful tale of the cuckolded suburbanite?’ Good question, Harry thought. ‘Well, you may be surprised to learn that Mrs Rillington and I are still together. It was a simple choice, really. I preferred trying to satisfy her exotic tastes to indulging my hurt pride and turning into a bitter and lonely old man. To tell the truth, I enjoyed trying to satisfy her tastes. And, if I say so myself, I succeeded beyond her expectations. She no longer needs to look elsewhere. Oh my word no. But continued success requires continuous innovation. Mrs Rillington has recently expressed an interest in unusual locations for lovemaking. Bearing in mind her enthusiasm for all things rubber, I think I may have found the ideal venue. Your workshop, Harry. Plenty of tyres, most of them bald enough to avoid tread marks, adaptable to any required height or juxtaposition. And plenty of authentic, grease-smeared, petroleum-scented atmosphere. I can see it now. I almost feel it now. As for Mrs Rillington …’ Rillington released a long, slow, anticipatory breath. ‘Enough said, I rather think.’

  ‘You want to … use our workshop to …’

  ‘It’s her birthday tomorrow, Harry. We’re making a long weekend of it. Starting tonight.’

  ‘Tonight?’

  ‘Why not?’

  ‘Well, I …’

  ‘Barnchase Motors can get a tick in every box from me. If you help me out. But if you’re going to go all prissy on me …’

  Harry smiled nervously. ‘There’s no question of that. I mean, in this line of business, the customer is always right.’

  ‘Glad to hear it. So …’ Rillington flicked the still suspended ignition key with his forefinger. ‘I don’t think that’s the right key. Do you?’

  ‘Didn’t think you’d get rid of him so easily,’ said Jackie when Harry returned to the office after giving Rillington his key to the side-door of the workshop. ‘I told Barry he had bad news written all over him.’

  ‘Barry?’

  ‘He phoned while you were out on the forecourt. Wanted to make sure everything was going smoothly, apparently.’

  ‘I trust you told him it was.’

  ‘Not exactly, no. Well, I didn’t think it was, did I?’

  ‘So, will Barry be rushing back to bale me out?’

  ‘Didn’t get that impression. Anyway, you don’t need baling out now, do you?’

  ‘No. As a matter of fact, I don’t.’

  ‘How did you get rid of him, then?’

  ‘Who?’ Harry countered coyly.

  ‘Rillington. The guy with the wig.’

  ‘Wig?’

  ‘That hair’s never natural. Didn’t you notice?’

  ‘Can’t say I did.’

  ‘Creepy, I’d call him. Could be a bit of a pervert on the quiet.’

  ‘You reckon?’

  ‘With that wig? And those X-ray eyes of his? Definitely kinky, I’d say.’

  ‘Would you?’ Harry yawned, exhaustion pouncing on him now the crisis was past. He could feel a doze coming on. ‘Would you really?’

  Harry was the last to leave Barnchase Motors that afternoon. Chipchase had not returned, which would have been unsurprising in the normal course of events but was utterly predictable given what Jackie had told him. MoT officials were not his company of choice. He was probably skulking in a pub in Newbury, fearing the worst. The thought gave Harry some small amount of pleasure. He would have to have a serious word with him about what Joe and Vince had been getting up to at his instigation. Harry would have to put his foot down. Firmly.

  But that could wait. There was an evening of gentle recuperation to be passed first. A pint at the Beehive; collection of dirty washing from his house; delivery thereof to his dear and doting mother, followed by consumption of one of her steak and kidney puddings; several more pints at the Glue Pot, and an earlyish night. Just the therapy his frayed nerves needed. As for what might be happening in the workshop back at Barnchase Mot
ors while he was thus engaged, he could only imagine. With relief as well as incredulity.

  Chipchase finally put in an appearance as Harry was nearing the end of his first pint at the Glue Pot, entering the bar with his coat collar turned up and the brim of his racing felt angled over his eyes as if he was intent on being taken for a fugitive.

  ‘Hellfire, Harry,’ he said as he sat down. ‘Am I pleased to see you.’

  ‘Worried about me, were you, Barry?’

  ‘You bet.’

  ‘But not enough to hurry back and face the music with me?’

  ‘Well, pulling the wool over some nitpicking bureaucrat’s eyes is more your speciality than mine. I didn’t want to cramp your style.’

  ‘That a fact?’

  ‘And you look chipper enough, so I’m guessing you got said bureaucrat off our backs.’

  ‘You guess right.’

  ‘How’d you manage that?’

  ‘All in good time, Barry. Let’s begin with why he was on our backs in the first place.’

  Chipchase’s response to Harry’s account of Rillington’s visit to Barnchase Motors was a characteristic blend of bombast and blandishment: Harry had never wanted to know exactly how the profits he shared in had been generated and it was too late to start now, even supposing there was any substance to Rillington’s accusations, which naturally there was not; but Harry’s negotiation of a solution to the problem qualified as a redeeming masterstroke.

  ‘Wouldn’t mind being a fly on the workshop wall tonight, hey? You played a blinder there, Harry old cock, you really did.’

  ‘I’m glad you think so.’ Harry was finding censoriousness difficult to maintain as pint followed pint and lurid images filled his mind.

  ‘Got a mental picture of Mrs Rillington, have you?’

  ‘Big woman, I should think.’

  ‘Yeah. With a bit of a spare tyre.’

  Harry finally cracked at that and descended into tearful mirth. ‘Several spare tyres tonight,’ he managed to say.

  ‘In all kinds of juxtapositions,’ Barry hooted.

  ‘Oh dear, oh dear.’ Harry dried his eyes as best he could. ‘I wonder if his toupee’ll stay on.’

  ‘I doubt it.’

  ‘Did you say toupee?’