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Authors: Andrew Lane
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the bowl from her with one hand and put it in
the sink. He paused, thinking, then turned back to Tara. ‘It’s civet cats in Indonesia that eat the coffee berries,’ he said seriously. ‘And, yes, the enzymes and acids in
their stomachs do soften and sweeten the seeds – the bits that we call the coffee beans. The trouble is that the local Indonesians, knowing how much the coffee sells for in the West, have
taken to capturing the civet cats, keeping them in battery cages in their thousands, and feeding them any old coffee berries that they can find. They’ve turned something special in nature
into something grotesque in farming. I stopped drinking the stuff when I found out.’
‘Good for you,’ Tara said as the door buzzer sounded.
Calum called out, ‘Come in, Mr Macfarlane!’
The door opened. Standing there was Mr Macfarlane, the chauffeur and handyman of Calum’s Great-Aunt Merrily. He was small – smaller than Tara – with close-cropped hair that was
barely distinguishable from the stubble that spread across his cheeks and chin. He wore a pinstripe suit with a waistcoat and a spotted tie. He had always reminded Calum of a cross between a garden
gnome and an East End gangster.
‘Mornin’, sir,’ he said in a husky voice. He nodded towards Tara. ‘Ma’am.’
‘We’re heading off towards Farnborough,’ Calum told him. ‘I can give you the exact address when we get closer.’
‘You’ve got a satnav?’ Tara asked. ‘If not, we can use my tablet. I’ve got a 4G connection and a GPS chip, so it’s always receiving.’
Macfarlane tapped his forehead. ‘Don’t need a satnav, ma’am. It’s all up ’ere.’ He glanced back at Calum. ‘You got a box for me, sir?’
Calum indicated the crate containing the bionic leg braces. ‘We’ve got to take that with us. Can you manage?’
‘I can manage stuff bigger than that, sir, with respect.’ He frowned. ‘But what about . . . ?’
Calum felt his muscles tense, and forced himself to relax. Macfarlane was talking – or, rather,
not
talking – about the wheelchair. It was use the wheelchair to get down to
the limousine or be carried. Calum didn’t particularly fancy either option, but of the two the wheelchair was the least objectionable. Marginally.
He turned his head to look at Tara. ‘Would you . . . ?’ he started, unexpectedly tongue-tied, ‘I mean, could you . . . ?’
‘Yes,’ she said simply, ‘of course I could.’
Calum was about to ask her how she knew what he meant, but she was already going to the cupboard near the door where he kept his wheelchair.
‘Don’t worry,’ Tara murmured. ‘I won’t tell anyone about it. At least, I won’t if you keep quiet about me falling off the coffee wagon.’
‘It’s a fair trade,’ Calum said. He swung himself across the room towards the door. Macfarlane moved inside, out of his way, and walked across to the crate. ‘Come on,
then. Let’s get this out of the way so we can concentrate on the big rat.’
‘I saw a big rat once,’ Macfarlane said conversationally to Tara. ‘In a warehouse by the side of the Thames. Big thing, it was, ’bout the size of a cat.’
‘This one is larger,’ Tara confided.
‘Right.’ He was quiet for a moment. ‘You’ll probably need a shotgun, then. I just used a revolver.’
Calum swung himself into the wheelchair, while Tara went out into the corridor and held the lift doors open. Macfarlane emerged from the apartment with the crate held in his arms like a dancing
partner. He swung the door closed with his foot, and Calum activated the security systems with a remote control on his key ring.
Tara hadn’t used the warehouse goods lift to go downstairs before. She’d always used the stairs. It was old, wooden and creaky, and it shuddered so much that she was worried they
might not make it to the ground floor.
Outside, the limousine was a symphony in polished black metal and chrome. ‘Ready to go?’ Tara asked.
‘As
the sink. He paused, thinking, then turned back to Tara. ‘It’s civet cats in Indonesia that eat the coffee berries,’ he said seriously. ‘And, yes, the enzymes and acids in
their stomachs do soften and sweeten the seeds – the bits that we call the coffee beans. The trouble is that the local Indonesians, knowing how much the coffee sells for in the West, have
taken to capturing the civet cats, keeping them in battery cages in their thousands, and feeding them any old coffee berries that they can find. They’ve turned something special in nature
into something grotesque in farming. I stopped drinking the stuff when I found out.’
‘Good for you,’ Tara said as the door buzzer sounded.
Calum called out, ‘Come in, Mr Macfarlane!’
The door opened. Standing there was Mr Macfarlane, the chauffeur and handyman of Calum’s Great-Aunt Merrily. He was small – smaller than Tara – with close-cropped hair that was
barely distinguishable from the stubble that spread across his cheeks and chin. He wore a pinstripe suit with a waistcoat and a spotted tie. He had always reminded Calum of a cross between a garden
gnome and an East End gangster.
‘Mornin’, sir,’ he said in a husky voice. He nodded towards Tara. ‘Ma’am.’
‘We’re heading off towards Farnborough,’ Calum told him. ‘I can give you the exact address when we get closer.’
‘You’ve got a satnav?’ Tara asked. ‘If not, we can use my tablet. I’ve got a 4G connection and a GPS chip, so it’s always receiving.’
Macfarlane tapped his forehead. ‘Don’t need a satnav, ma’am. It’s all up ’ere.’ He glanced back at Calum. ‘You got a box for me, sir?’
Calum indicated the crate containing the bionic leg braces. ‘We’ve got to take that with us. Can you manage?’
‘I can manage stuff bigger than that, sir, with respect.’ He frowned. ‘But what about . . . ?’
Calum felt his muscles tense, and forced himself to relax. Macfarlane was talking – or, rather,
not
talking – about the wheelchair. It was use the wheelchair to get down to
the limousine or be carried. Calum didn’t particularly fancy either option, but of the two the wheelchair was the least objectionable. Marginally.
He turned his head to look at Tara. ‘Would you . . . ?’ he started, unexpectedly tongue-tied, ‘I mean, could you . . . ?’
‘Yes,’ she said simply, ‘of course I could.’
Calum was about to ask her how she knew what he meant, but she was already going to the cupboard near the door where he kept his wheelchair.
‘Don’t worry,’ Tara murmured. ‘I won’t tell anyone about it. At least, I won’t if you keep quiet about me falling off the coffee wagon.’
‘It’s a fair trade,’ Calum said. He swung himself across the room towards the door. Macfarlane moved inside, out of his way, and walked across to the crate. ‘Come on,
then. Let’s get this out of the way so we can concentrate on the big rat.’
‘I saw a big rat once,’ Macfarlane said conversationally to Tara. ‘In a warehouse by the side of the Thames. Big thing, it was, ’bout the size of a cat.’
‘This one is larger,’ Tara confided.
‘Right.’ He was quiet for a moment. ‘You’ll probably need a shotgun, then. I just used a revolver.’
Calum swung himself into the wheelchair, while Tara went out into the corridor and held the lift doors open. Macfarlane emerged from the apartment with the crate held in his arms like a dancing
partner. He swung the door closed with his foot, and Calum activated the security systems with a remote control on his key ring.
Tara hadn’t used the warehouse goods lift to go downstairs before. She’d always used the stairs. It was old, wooden and creaky, and it shuddered so much that she was worried they
might not make it to the ground floor.
Outside, the limousine was a symphony in polished black metal and chrome. ‘Ready to go?’ Tara asked.
‘As
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