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Authors: Roger Ormerod
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It doesn’t sound petty to me.’ It would have been receipts for odd jobs paid for in cash, and therefore not reaching the books. It certainly sounded like the sort of place where I’d have found plenty of trouble.
‘ She had this money,’ he said through his teeth, ‘and she saw where the smoke was blowing, so when she handed over the wages book she slipped the envelope inside it.’
‘ And I was aware of this?’
‘ Of course you were, or what’d be the point.’
‘ And you were, too?’
‘ Not till after you’d left. Then I found out. The stupid cow. I was wild, I can tell you. I’d have called your bluff...’
‘ So you came after me and tried to brain me, to get it back?’
‘ I came after you. I found you unconscious.’
‘ Well thanks. You found me unconscious, and your first thought was your damned money.’
‘ I didn’t lie about it. That’s what I told the police.’
‘ Then don’t sound so smug about it.’
I was getting him angry again. ‘Are you coming into the office for that insurance cover?’ he demanded, looking as though one word more would have him tearing my arms out.
‘ I’ll be in...give me a minute.’
When he turned away I slid behind the wheel and stared for a while through the windscreen, seeing nothing. It was clear that I’d created quite a whirlwind of trouble at this place on November the 16th, sixteen months before. But that meant I’d found trouble, and so far the only hint of anything serious had been my memory of George Peters’ statement, and that had been dredged from a mind I could not trust. And even that could surely not have attracted a £600 bribe. There had to be a misunderstanding over that, one that had infuriated Tony Clayton.
It surely wouldn’t have required an adjustable spanner to put it right.
Angry at the thought, I climbed out of the car.
‘ And they’ve been using the boot to dump their rubbish,’ I said, marching into the self-service shop, and having opened the boot lid to see whether my tools were still there.
Annoyed, he stamped out after me, to check. I’d left the boot lid up.
The Volvo’s boot is huge. You could’ve camped in it. What they’d dumped inside it was one of those large black plastic bags that garages use for their rubbish. This one was bulging with something, its neck tied tightly with string.
The something, I now realised, had a pattern of bumps that created a picture of the contents, and it wasn’t sundry rubbish. It had the shape of a human being, curled in foetal position. Tentatively, I touched it, and I must have disturbed the seal the string had made. There was a gentle hiss.
Clayton fell back, gasping, a hand to his mouth. I managed to choke: ‘Ring the police.’ Then I slammed the lid shut and ran for the corner of the forecourt, and was very sick.
When I felt well enough to search him out, he was in the small cubby-hole behind the cash desk, which the two cashiers used as a retreat for their breaks. There was a table and three wooden chairs in there (I recognised them as old ones from the main office upstairs) and a coffee machine on the wall. I paid for two plastic cups of it. He was sitting at the table with his head in his hands, moaning: ‘Tessa, Tessa,’ to himself.
I slid the cup under his nose and told him to drink that, and: ‘Who’s Tessa?’
‘ My wife.’ He lifted his harrowed face. ‘My wife!’ he repeated frantically.
‘ Don’t be a damned fool. She’s only been missing a week, and that – out there – God knows how long...’
His mouth writhed. ‘You’re sure?’
I couldn’t be sure of anything, but I made myself sound sure. ‘That thing must’ve been there months.’
It certainly hadn’t been there on November 16th, sixteen months before, when I’d left the car behind. At that time, Clayton and I had both gone out of circulation. That thought seemed to occur to him. His thoughts were always selfish. Fractionally he brightened, reaching for his
‘ She had this money,’ he said through his teeth, ‘and she saw where the smoke was blowing, so when she handed over the wages book she slipped the envelope inside it.’
‘ And I was aware of this?’
‘ Of course you were, or what’d be the point.’
‘ And you were, too?’
‘ Not till after you’d left. Then I found out. The stupid cow. I was wild, I can tell you. I’d have called your bluff...’
‘ So you came after me and tried to brain me, to get it back?’
‘ I came after you. I found you unconscious.’
‘ Well thanks. You found me unconscious, and your first thought was your damned money.’
‘ I didn’t lie about it. That’s what I told the police.’
‘ Then don’t sound so smug about it.’
I was getting him angry again. ‘Are you coming into the office for that insurance cover?’ he demanded, looking as though one word more would have him tearing my arms out.
‘ I’ll be in...give me a minute.’
When he turned away I slid behind the wheel and stared for a while through the windscreen, seeing nothing. It was clear that I’d created quite a whirlwind of trouble at this place on November the 16th, sixteen months before. But that meant I’d found trouble, and so far the only hint of anything serious had been my memory of George Peters’ statement, and that had been dredged from a mind I could not trust. And even that could surely not have attracted a £600 bribe. There had to be a misunderstanding over that, one that had infuriated Tony Clayton.
It surely wouldn’t have required an adjustable spanner to put it right.
Angry at the thought, I climbed out of the car.
‘ And they’ve been using the boot to dump their rubbish,’ I said, marching into the self-service shop, and having opened the boot lid to see whether my tools were still there.
Annoyed, he stamped out after me, to check. I’d left the boot lid up.
The Volvo’s boot is huge. You could’ve camped in it. What they’d dumped inside it was one of those large black plastic bags that garages use for their rubbish. This one was bulging with something, its neck tied tightly with string.
The something, I now realised, had a pattern of bumps that created a picture of the contents, and it wasn’t sundry rubbish. It had the shape of a human being, curled in foetal position. Tentatively, I touched it, and I must have disturbed the seal the string had made. There was a gentle hiss.
Clayton fell back, gasping, a hand to his mouth. I managed to choke: ‘Ring the police.’ Then I slammed the lid shut and ran for the corner of the forecourt, and was very sick.
When I felt well enough to search him out, he was in the small cubby-hole behind the cash desk, which the two cashiers used as a retreat for their breaks. There was a table and three wooden chairs in there (I recognised them as old ones from the main office upstairs) and a coffee machine on the wall. I paid for two plastic cups of it. He was sitting at the table with his head in his hands, moaning: ‘Tessa, Tessa,’ to himself.
I slid the cup under his nose and told him to drink that, and: ‘Who’s Tessa?’
‘ My wife.’ He lifted his harrowed face. ‘My wife!’ he repeated frantically.
‘ Don’t be a damned fool. She’s only been missing a week, and that – out there – God knows how long...’
His mouth writhed. ‘You’re sure?’
I couldn’t be sure of anything, but I made myself sound sure. ‘That thing must’ve been there months.’
It certainly hadn’t been there on November 16th, sixteen months before, when I’d left the car behind. At that time, Clayton and I had both gone out of circulation. That thought seemed to occur to him. His thoughts were always selfish. Fractionally he brightened, reaching for his
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