The Circle Now Is Made (King's Way Book 1) (3 page)

He was addressing a plainly dressed young lady at the other end of the bar, probably late twenties guessed Greg. She was dark and petite – her smile cheerful if somewhat jaded.

“You strapped as well?’ she asked, "no shortage of our sort around here I’m afraid.” Although unpretentious and plainly dressed, her manner was warm, her accent pleasantly Cornish. Greg found the qualities attractive, and was more keen to engage with her than with the limited mortician, so he took his drink and sat on a bar stool beside her.

“Someone else in the same stew?” he asked. “How long have you been out of work?"

“Well I haven't altogether finished - yet," she replied. “Jan - Jan Richards." She sighed as she shook Greg's outstretched hand. “I’m on my own you see, so it will cost me as much to pay a babysitter as I can earn. I had a part-time job too but that didn’t last either.” Jan went on to explain that she'd only moved to the village several months earlier, though had always lived in and around the area.

“I’ve a lad of four,” she explained. “Came to Trevelly to work for Penmaric at the
Manor..
.”

“Manor?”

“Penmaric House,” continued Jan. “The Penmarics who own the estate have lived there for generations. The job was perfect because it came with accommodation – a log cabin - and I could do most of my work from there.” She placed a finger to her mouth and lowered her voice. “Not for much longer by the looks of it though, and it looks like a lot of folk in Trevelly will be in the same position. No homes or jobs.”

“You mean everyone in the village works for Penmaric?"

"Worked," corrected Jan. "Not everyone - but almost. The problems started when the old chap upped and died recently and left things in a mess.”

“You still have the cabin?”

“For the time being.” Jan nodded as she sipped her drink. “His widow says I might have to move out if something isn’t sorted. She did hint vaguely at a business proposition - sort of thing that might interest a person with money - but I don’t suppose she’ll be giving me much help, really. Not as I can blame her, mind - by the looks of it she might have to sell up.”

“Ay, along wi' that barmy nephew o' Penmaric’s!” piped in Wheeler as Greg was about to reply. “Not as it’ll bother 'im; never ‘ome anyway...” Wheeler’s voice tailed off and he stared sheepishly down at the bar, having realised he'd been caught ear-wigging by his own nosiness.

Wheeler and Jan then related the rest of the story between them. Evidently Lawson Penmaric, the squire-like figure who'd owned and run the local estate, had recently died - leaving the manor and surrounding farm-land to his widow and nephew. The problem was that the cash inheritance he'd been expected to leave had failed to materialise; and there was no reference to such in his will. This left the beneficiaries with hardly enough to tread water, let alone find the investment needed for the concern to continue. Rumour had it that Penmaric had safely invested the family money in antiques and the like.

“So safely it can’t be found!” said Jan with a wry grin.

To add to the confusion, Penmaric’s nephew Nigel didn’t appear to have any interest in either the business or livelihoods of the employees - who stood to lose their homes and jobs if the estate was sold off.

“I don't know if it's true, but I'm told he’s a bit of a junkie,” explained Jan. “All he does is clear off to London or abroad every few weeks with whatever money he has left... Until it’s all gone I reckon.”

“Rides round in that old car of Penmaric’s like Lord Muck,” chimed in Wheeler, “the only thing of value the old man left, and even that’s going to pot.” He sniggered at his pun. “Penmaric’s pride and joy that car was: Nineteen-thirty-five Aston-Martin. Thought so much of it he made some provision whereby it can only be retained for the lifetime of his dependants: made it over to a Vintage Owners’ Club years ago apparently.”

“So they can't even flog that…What about Penmaric’s widow?” asked Greg with mounting intrigue, “does she know nothing?”

“Bit of a gold digger if you ask me.” Jan grinned knowingly. “She’s thirty six, and only married him eleven months ago - draw your own conclusions. But it seems the old man was crafty enough to keep his wealth from her; bit too crafty it seems.”

“So she’s had a suck in as well!” Wheeler’s translucent features lightened for the first time that day. “Got what her deserves - dirty little madam.”

“Someone must know something,” concluded Greg. “Do you think someone in the family's holding back in the hope of keeping the lot?”

“Now you might be talkin' some sense!” The remark clearly gave the dubious Wheeler some pleasure. He smiled again and added, “Man after me own heart you am, lad.”

At this point barman Eddy, who'd remained silent throughout, raised his piercing brown eyes from the local paper.

“I’ve listened to a lot of speculation from behind here,” he said with a cutting scouse accent. “And from what I can make out, he told his wife nothing!”

Unless he was actually party to a conversation, Eddy preferred listening. The fact that he'd found it necessary to interpose made his take on the matter more significant. “Didn’t altogether trust his missis, perhaps,” he continued. “And although it's rumoured he left some message for that twerp Nigel, he was either too pissed or high to understand it. As for the situation in general, I can't see anyone coming out winning. It's looking grim!”

“Well,” said Greg with a sigh, “that’s my window round gone to the wall by the looks of it. Things could be trickier than I thought, so I'll just console myself with the bonus that I love this part of the world whatever.”

 The talk became more general for a while, and would have remained so but for the arrival of a studious-looking young man - though only in that he wore an immature goatee beard, thick cords and an itchy-looking Shetland-wool sweater. As the newcomer waited for Eddy to pull his beer, the rest of the company remained silent, suggesting to Greg that he must be one of the Penmaric family. His theory was confirmed when he wandered casually to the window to check if there was a veteran car outside. Indeed there was, and Greg saw immediately why the old man had been so proud of it. Apart from the usual dart-shaped wedges of spray adorning most vehicles during winter, the convertible was immaculate.

On returning his attention to the bar, Greg saw that Wheeler was sucking up to the young man in the two-faced manner he'd have expected.

“Looking after your uncle’s car well, I see,” he heard. “Lawson’s pride and joy the old beauty was.”  

Greg sat again by Jan, who flashed her hazel eyes in disgust at Wheeler.

“Creep!” she mimed. Greg nodded his agreement and invited her to have another drink.

“No thanks.” Jan replied hesitantly, in the manner of someone refusing out of politeness. “I’m not really a drinker. I just come in to pass an hour before I collect Jamie from play-group - doesn’t run to any more I’m afraid.” Greg ignored her and ordered two brandy and peps “to keep out the cold,” then turned his attention to the young man.

 “Lovely old car - yours I take it?”

“I told you not ten minutes ago,” whined the tactless Wheeler, leaving Greg red-faced.

“Oh - er - this is Lawson Penmaric’s nephew, Nigel,” intervened Jan quickly. “Nigel this is Greg...Greg er..?

“Gregory. Jonathan Gregory, but call me Greg.” He didn’t want to lie, but in the heat of the moment he considered some sort of anonymity might be wise in his circumstances. He took Nigel's hand, noting the lack of conviction in his grip.

“Like shaking hands with a rag doll,” he was later to remark. Greg chatted with him for a few minutes, during which time it became obvious that Nigel was indeed callow. He clearly wasn't the intellectual he strove to be perceived as, yet he had the demeanour of a man destined for wealth. Sadly, it occurred to Greg, he might never realise his destiny.

Greg was later to conclude that meeting Nigel, when he himself was at low ebb, was to make him count his blessings. It was evident that if Nigel didn't inherit the wealth intended for him, there was only one way he could go, equipped as he was, with neither the wit nor instinct for survival.

With that thought, Greg decided to concentrate on the more pressing business of becoming sufficiently anaesthetised to sleep the afternoon through. The early sun had disappeared from view, and the day looked on course for one best spent lounging in front of TV. He resumed his chat with Jan until a snatch of conversation caught his attention: young Penmaric, it emerged, was planning to take the old car to some sort of rally in Barcelona.

Greg’s mind suddenly raced: all he knew of his children's whereabouts was that they were in Perpignan, France - over a hundred miles north of the Spanish city.

We know who your kids are… We know where your kids are.

Although he doubted the debt collectors would travel so far even for the amount of recompense involved, the knife-man's words still haunted him; and despite his feelings towards his ex-wife, he felt he should make her aware of the threat. More than anything though, he longed to see the children again, and he turned his attention back to Nigel's plan, its profile raised by the barman’s amazement at it.

“Rather you than me!” Eddy was astounded by the youth’s claim that the Ulster was
easily capable
of the journey across Northern Spain.  "I wouldn’t fancy that trip in
summer
even
-
and you say you’re going alone?”

“Of course,’ replied Nigel calmly.  “The round trip involves less than a thousand miles total driving after all – no more than a challenge in my book.”

By that stage, Greg found it impossible to conceal his interest: he excused himself from Jan and began questioning Nigel with regard to the proposed route... and whether a co-driver would be welcome. Nigel showed more enthusiasm towards the offer than Greg expected.

"Why? Are you
really
interested? I was going to take a girlfriend originally, but she lost interest when she discovered Northern Spain can be as inhospitable as Cornwall at this time of year. When I first mentioned the rally she was mad on the idea. Did all the bookings and
then
changed her mind - shallow bitch. Thought the whole of Spain was constantly in the nineties y’know. I have another girlfriend living near Barcelona at the mo’, but that sort of thing would be of no interest to her. Gorgeous, but too highly strung for that stuff.”

“Well, I'm not over-keen on the rally
itself
.” Greg wasn’t keen to divulge too much information. “I’ve relatives in Perpignan I’d like to visit. But I’d do more than my share of driving to Barcelona and back.”

“Mmm,” mused Nigel, “I must admit I'd feel happier with company. It's four hundred and fifty miles from coast to coast, so you'd save me a fair bit of driving …” Nigel's voice tapered off.

"But?" cut in Greg, in anticipation.

"You'd have way over a hundred miles by bus or train to Perpignan – but if that's not a problem…?"

"Not at all; I'll have plenty of time, and I can stay with them for a day or so if necessary," he lied.

“I think you’re
both
barmy!” interrupted Eddy. “The car's a masterpiece but - will all respect - a round trip of a thousand miles in a vehicle that age?” He paused and looked across at the window. “Here come the blokes to ask.”

The bar door swung open and two of the most dubious characters Greg had ever set eyes on entered. If a shady characters bureau existed, he mused, this pair had surely just emerged from it. After they'd been introduced to Greg as ‘Hud and Ten’, the duo moved to the opposite end of the bar and engaged with Wheeler. This gave the acid-witted Eddy plenty of chance to describe the twosome to Greg.

Bert ‘Hud’ Hudson, it transpired, was a used car dealer who'd started out as a plumber and moved into auto-sales almost by accident. “He bought an old van as a workhorse,” whispered Eddy, “but the van was so ropey it was taken out of commission after a roadside check. He tarted it up, got it MOT’d and dropped it for something more reliable.” The barman went on to explain that, amazingly, Hud made a decent profit and moved on to a more upmarket van.

"After that he did a number of similar transactions – purely to remain mobile," continued Eddy. “Not being the brightest of folk, it took him time to realise he could make more off he vans than plumbing - not that he’d been any slouch in that game either. Poor people, pensioners -
especially
pensioners - they’ve all fallen foul of Hud."

Eddy paused to light a thin roll-up before continuing “And if the customer couldn't continue paying his extortionate prices, Hud would obligingly take payment in kind. By force if necessary!” Eddy grinned and drew hard on the cigarette. “If you’re looking for the milk of human kindness,” he added with a wink, “Hud ain’t the cow!”

Jan and Greg listened intently as Eddy went on to explain that Hud had ultimately been forced to retire from plumbing after drying up (though far from literally!) the local market, and had bought a small car-lot near Plymouth. Greg stared hard at the short square man, complete with greasy trilby and Krugerrand rings on several of his fat fingers.
An Al Capone look-alike if ever there was one!
he mused.

"Would you buy a used car from that man?" whispered Eddy. "More likely buy used underpants off Ebay. But people
do
buy – he somehow attracts a couple of new mugs a week, it seems."