Judge a man by his questions rather than his answers
Vesta was always at home around vehicles. She’d spent eighteen months working at Halley Insurance, down the hall from McGuigan & McGuigan, before she took up with Mirabelle. She claimed these were the most boring months of her working life, but she’d retained a knowledge and interest in cars that was quite out of Mirabelle’s reach.
The women caught a bus down Eastern Road back towards town, but only for a couple of stops. Vesta rang the bell and the driver came to a halt. ‘Come on,’ she said, hopping back on to the hot paving stones. The two women walked back up the hill a little way, the sea breeze at their backs, until they reached a garage, painted white with a sign that said ‘Kemptown Motors’. It was, Mirabelle noted, conveniently placed – close to town. The paint was flaking, and there was a single petrol pump to one side. Several cars were parked at the entrance, including two Black Marias that Mirabelle knew must be old police cars.
‘Hello,’ Vesta called to no avail.
An acrid whiff of rotting rubbish hung on the air, alongside a heady undertone of petrol.
‘This place looks pretty down at heel,’ Mirabelle said.
Vesta checked her watch. ‘Those are the best garages. Good mechanics don’t bother to, you know, maintain anything other than engines. Hello,’ she called again, into the interior of the garage from the door. Her voice echoed. A pigeon landed on the skylight and then flew off. There was no reply.
‘Do you think they might have finished early?’ Mirabelle ventured.
‘And left the pump unlocked and the door open? No.’
Then a voice shouted Vesta’s name from outside. The women spun round in the direction of the street to see a small man in greasy overalls on the edge of the pavement opposite. A lit cigarette dangled from his lips.
‘Vesta!’ he shouted again, and he crossed without properly checking for traffic, his arms held wide. ‘Hello, girl. Haven’t seen you in a while,’ he said, his cigarette still in place as he clasped his fingers around Vesta’s arm, and excitedly gave it a squeeze.
‘I changed jobs, Mike.’
‘Did you now? Who’s this?’ He held out a grease-smeared hand towards Mirabelle.
‘Mirabelle Bevan,’ she said, shaking it as enthusiastically as she could. Mike smelled of engine oil.
At least, Mirabelle thought, it was better than the smell on the air.
‘We’re looking for a car,’ Vesta said. ‘Details. Just on the off-chance. I was hoping you might be able to help.’
From the other side of the road a bell chimed as another man walked out of the doorway. ‘Mike,’ he shouted over the road. ‘You want the rest of this?’ He held up a small plate with a half-eaten roll on it.
‘Yeah. Go on then,’ Mike smiled. ‘And the tea.’
The man disappeared inside again, past a hand-painted sign that said ‘Café Here’. He emerged with a mug and carefully crossed the road, where he deposited it on the hood of one of the parked cars.
‘Thanks, Johnny. I got all excited spotting Vesta here. She’s one of my best customers. Well, the source of them.’
‘Best garage in town,’ Vesta insisted with a grin. ‘Where else would I send my clients?’
‘Exactly.’ Mike removed the cigarette, stubbed it out, picked up the roll and bit into it. He chewed unenthusiastically. ‘Eggs ain’t up to much when they’ve gone cold,’ he said. ‘And there’s that smell too.’
‘Want me to make you another?’ the other man offered. He sniffed. ‘It’s not so bad today, is it? The other week, whooph! I just about fainted when I came over.’
Mike shook his head. He took a long slurp out of the mug and patted his stomach. ‘I’ve had enough. It’s put me off, so it has. So, Vesta, what have you been up to, then?’
‘I went to work in debt collection. McGuigan & McGuigan Debt Recovery,’ she announced proudly, presenting Mike with a business card from her handbag.
Mike sucked air through his teeth as he examined it. ‘Tricky business, that. You’ll need all your skills.’
‘And some new ones,’ Vesta winked.
Mike laughed. He reached into his pocket, pulled out a packet of Capstan cigarettes and lit one, placing it in his mouth. Mirabelle looked at the petrol pump with dubiety. Faded but clearly in place there was a No Smoking symbol.
‘Don’t mind that, love. You light up if you want to,’ Mike said cheerily.
‘I’m fine,’ said Mirabelle. ‘Thank you.’
The man from the café cleared the crockery. He poured the rest of the tea into the gutter. ‘See you tomorrow,’ he said, and crossed back over the road, disappearing back into the café with a tinkle of the bell.
‘Well, I suppose that explains it. I thought you were dead or something. I thought you’d got married.’
‘Oh, I did get married,’ Vesta grinned. ‘Sorry. I should have said.’
‘I suppose you’re a married lady too?’ The mechanic eyed Mirabelle.
‘No. Not at all.’
He raised an eyebrow. ‘Do you want to be?’ A thick, hacking, phlegmy cough emanated – the sound of him laughing at his own joke.
‘I had a baby – a little boy,’ Vesta changed the subject.
‘Well now. Congratulations. And now you need a car, is that it? Come to cash in on all those customers you sent me? I’ve got a sweet little Triumph in the back. I can fix it up and it’ll run like a dream, you’ll see.’
‘No. I have a bicycle, actually. Can you see me on a bike? No! But I love it. The thing is, Mike, we came because we’re looking for the owner of a car. A Jaguar, actually. A blue one. I wondered if you knew the vehicle. A blue Jaguar is quite unusual and, if they knew their onions, they’d get you to service it, rather than sending it up to London every time, wouldn’t they?’
Mike looked left and right down the street. He pulled back his shoulders. ‘A dark blue Jaguar, you mean?’ he checked. ‘Navy.’
‘Yes,’ said Mirabelle. ‘Driven by a man with a moustache.’
‘Been in an accident, has it?’
‘No. Nothing like that,’ Vesta assured him.
‘Does the driver owe somebody money?’
‘Not on our books. Mike, do you know who he is?’
Mike motioned the women to come inside the garage. Mirabelle looked up and down the street. There was hardly anyone to be seen. Inside, Mike drew deeply on his cigarette, clutching it between forefinger and thumb. He did this three times.
‘Are you in some kind of trouble, Vesta?’
Vesta laughed. ‘Not that I know of.’
Mike stared at her, as if he was reading her face. ‘Well,’ he said. ‘I’d keep away from that guy, if I were you.’
‘Is that so? Why?’
‘They’re not nice people. That’s all.’
‘You’ve fixed the car, though?’
‘Yes. You don’t turn those guys away.’
‘What guys?’
‘Down from London,’ Mike said mysteriously. ‘Not on holiday neither. Just down from London, if you see what I mean. I can’t imagine why you’d even want to know who that guy is. My advice is to keep away from him.’
Mirabelle laid her hand on Vesta’s arm.
‘Thanks,’ she said. ‘Well, I guess we’d best be going. I don’t suppose you’ve any idea where we might find these men?’
Mike shifted. ‘Don’t go looking for them, miss. That’s my advice.’
‘You don’t have an address?’
Mike shook his head. ‘No,’ he said, ‘I don’t. And if I did I’d think twice about giving it to you. It’s good to see you, Vesta. Shame it’s taken so long.’ A small piece of ash floated to the ground from the end of his cigarette.
‘Thanks,’ Vesta said. ‘It’s good to see you too.’
Back out on the street, the women turned towards the sea. The breeze offered relief from the heat. The smell quickly disappeared and the fresh air seemed sweet by comparison. It struck Mirabelle as strange how quickly they had got used to it.
‘Well,’ said Vesta, ‘that wasn’t like Mike. Not the way I remember him. He’s always been such a cheery chappie.’
‘The mob will do that to the cheeriest,’ Mirabelle said.
‘The mob?’ Vesta hoisted her handbag further up her forearm.
Mirabelle thought for a moment. ‘Poor Sister Taylor,’ she said. ‘What I don’t understand is what are they doing at a children’s home in the first place? Or ferrying nurses around?’ Mirabelle took her sunglasses out of her bag and put them on. ‘I’m not sure yet but there’s more than that question. There’s something bigger. And you know, I’m interested – what is the operation that McGregor is working on? He had a picture of that car. And a woman too. So, what exactly is he on to?’