SEVENTEEN

PLYMOUTH—FEBRUARY

“Money for old rope,” Charlie Wilkinson decided as he waited at Mill Bay Docks, Plymouth. He had retired from the Police eleven years before and had invested his savings in setting up business as an Enquiry Agent.

He had rooms in a grubby Bristol back street. To the exterior of the premises he had done nothing. The windows were opaque with encrusted dirt. Inside wasn’t much better. There was a job lot of a deal table, battered swivel chair and an army surplus filing cabinet. A telephone and a tear-off calendar completed the furnishings. But the room contained a resumé of the private lives of the high and low life of Bristol Society.

Much of his work came from Alistair Duncan’s firm. Usually, he had to be discreet, but, today, he had a clear mandate:—‘Follow a French lorry and make no secret of it’. “Money for old rope” he muttered as the ferry docked.

As the Volvo rumbled past him, Charlie recognized Bouchin from the photograph which Duncan had taken. He set off in pursuit, maintaining a steady distance. With Exeter Race Course close by, Charlie overtook Bouchin’s lorry. No sooner was the Viva ahead than Charlie cut in sharply, forcing the French driver to brake. Splendid! He then meandered like a Sunday afternooner, preventing the lorry from overtaking.

At a lay-by Charlie pulled off the road without warning. He was rewarded with an angry toot. Immediately Charlie pulled out into the slipstream and again he overtook, cutting in as before. There was a further blast of the horn. At this he let Bouchin overtake and then followed him to Wincanton. There the Frenchman stopped at a transport café. Anxious to avoid a confrontation at the moment, Charlie parked opposite.

Bouchin set off again in the direction of London. In his mirror he could see the Viva right behind like a stray dog. It was odd, but no more than that. At least not then. It was very odd when the Viva followed the lorry into the Industrial Estate at Basingstoke! Bouchin parked in the Depôt. There outside was the Viva.

Charlie Wilkinson watched. Bouchin went in. Bouchin came out with the Transport Manager. The Englishman was a short, fattish man who walked with busy little strides like a clockwork soldier in a demob suit. To add to his image of status he carried a clipboard. Charlie knew the type.

The two men approached the Viva. Bouchin stood near the bonnet. The Transport Manager stood by the driver’s door. Deliberately, Charlie made no attempt to open the window. The little man was nonplussed. He was being ignored. He hopped uncertainly from foot to foot. Charlie started to read his paper. This was just too much! Rap, rap. A knuckle struck the window. Charlie looked up and saw the furious, round, bespectacled face peering in. He lowered the window.

“Do you mind not knocking my car about?” Charlie demanded. The Transport Manager was wrong-footed. “I thought you knew that I wanted a word,” he replied.

“No.”

“What are you up to?”

“Nice of you to ask. I’m sitting here reading a paper. Hey—are you from Candid Camera?”

“No I’m not!” snapped the man, his eyes bulging. “I don’t know what you’re up to, but I suggest that you clear off before I call the Police.”

“Why?”

“Because … because … because I don’t like people hanging around my premises.”

“Oh, these are your premises, are they? I assumed you were just a clerk.” The remark, calculated to sting, did so.

“I am” the man said importantly, “Group Transport Manager, if you must know.”

“And I’m the Queen of Tonga.” Charlie started to look at his paper again. “No, I don’t care who you are. I don’t want to know at all.” He started to close the window.

“Now just a minute,” interjected the man.

“Sorry,” replied Charlie,” I thought you’d finished.”

“No. I hadn’t.” The small moustache twitched. He looked at Bouchin for reassurance, but got none. He knew he was getting the runaround.

“D’you want a winner for the three-thirty?” Charlie suggested helpfully.

“No, I don’t want any bloody tips.” The eyes blinked. The voice was petulant.

“Well, what do you want? You want to buy my car, is that it? Sorry—it’s not for sale.”

The Transport Manager could stand no more of it. He smashed the clip-board onto the bonnet and regretted it at once. Charlie stepped out of the car—all six feet three inches of him.

“Just watch it, little man! If you touch my car again I’ll mince you through the fan belt. Just clear off!”

“I’m sorry,” said the Transport Manager. “All I want to know is what your game is.”

“Game? Game?” enquired Charlie incredulously. “I’m not playing any game at all.”

“I happen to know you followed this driver from Plymouth.” The remark was produced like a rabbit from a hat.

“You amaze me. Go on.”

“Well, that’s it.”

“You don’t have to tell me where I’ve just come from, Mr Transport Manager. Goodbye.”

The little man gave up. He’d played every card at the wrong moment. He turned away, wondering how he could fob off the defeat as a victory to the Frenchman. As they walked away Charlie called him back. “Here’s my card. It’s a long way following from Marans. You can tell that to Bouchin if your French is up to it. I’ll be telling my boss what I have seen too.”

“Your boss?”

“Yes, it’s to do with a certain accident last October.” Charlie jumped into his car and drove away, leaving the two men staring after him.

The bar of the Queen’s Parlour was quiet. It was the in-between time. Most of the office staff had gone home, but a couple of illicit romancers sipped cocktails. The locals were not yet expected. Seated in the inglenook was Alistair Duncan reading an article about sea-trout fishing. It brought back many happy memories and hopes for the season ahead. In front of him was a pint of bitter as he waited for Charlie Wilkinson.

“You look tired. Let me get you a drink,” said the solicitor when the agent arrived.

“I deserve it. Guinness, please.”

“And the usual?” Duncan enquired. Charlie grinned.

“Thanks.”

“And faggot and peas for Mr Wilkinson, Rosie.”

“Twice?” Rose smiled at her favourite solicitor. She knew the answer already.

“The day you see me eating faggots, you’ll really know I’m finished.”

“And that’s not far off from what I’ve been reading in the papers. About you and that Judge.”

“Didn’t know you read newspapers. Eating your chips at the time, were you?” Rosie shook her fist as Duncan continued. “I’m not drummed out of the Brownies yet. To prove it, I can still afford a steak.” He turned to Charlie Wilkinson. “Come on, Charlie, change your mind and have a plate of brains. It’d do you good.”

As they waited for their food the two men sat down. “He certainly knew he was followed”, volunteered Charlie.

“Well done. No punch-ups, were there?”

“No! Lambs to the slaughter!” Charlie then unfolded the events of the day.

On the short drive home, Duncan thought a lot about Charlie. He had been lucky not to be roughed up. Bouchin was not to be underestimated. But his thoughts were more of Charlie than of Bouchin. There had been that time at Clevedon! Duncan smiled to himself. He had been called from bed to go to the Police Station to vouch that Charlie was a private eye and not a Peeping Tom. Charlie had been trying to get evidence in a divorce case. The sight of Charlie in the cells, his coat and trousers savaged by a dog, was still memorable. But the world would be poorer without him.

Duncan swung the Stag through the white gates into the drive. The cottage looked as dark and empty as it was. It made him wonder what Hélène was doing. He decided to ring her.