Past Imperfect Page 13

  Once the meal was over, Victoria was first to leave the table. Kate looked over at Michael.

  ‘What happened last night?’ she asked him.

  Michael glanced up and lifted his shoulders in a shrug. ‘Got into a fight. We told you.’

  Kate looked at Paul then back at Michael. ‘But you don’t like fighting,’ she told him.

  Michael coughed out a short laugh. ‘Don’t always get the choice. If someone wants to have a go at you, well, there’s not a lot you can do about it.’

  ‘You could run.’

  He made a condescending face at Kate. ‘As if,’ he said.

  Kate looked back at Paul. ‘You stopped it.’ She shook her head. ‘So what happened?’

  Paul arched his eyebrows. ‘Nothing happened. We got into a fight and I managed to stop it.’ He held his hands out. ‘There’s nothing more to it than that. It’s done, finished, over.’

  Kate leaned back from the table. ‘Where did it happen?’

  ‘It doesn’t matter where it happened,’ Michael told her. His voice was sharp. ‘It just happened and now it’s over.’

  Kate had no option but to drop it. She could see that neither of them was going to open up any further, which was not like them: they always loved bragging to her about the scrapes they got into. But their escapades were mostly schoolboy stuff, or had been. They were men now: two handsome, well-built lads who had gone through the transformation that robs mothers of their children’s innocence and leaves them facing the stark reality that everyone ages. And this was no exception: Paul and Michael were beginning to forge their own futures, and as their mother – albeit their adoptive mother – she could only help and advise them, and watch as they made their own decisions, right or wrong.

  Kate conceded defeat and asked them what they would be doing that afternoon. Paul said he was going into Portsmouth. Kate guessed it had something to do with his growing business moving and delivering all manner of things. She looked at Michael.

  ‘You going too?’

  He shook his head. ‘No, I’ll be staying here.’ Paul snapped a look at his brother but said nothing. Michael went on. ‘I need to get on with that wall over in the top meadow. I noticed this morning it needs some work.’

  ‘The drystone wall?’ Kate asked.

  Michael nodded. ‘Yeah. I reckon I can repair the gaps in a couple of hours.’ He glanced at Paul, who was still looking rather stern. ‘It’s got to be done.’

  Kate had designated parts of the estate as working areas of responsibility for them. It didn’t involve too much, but it was intended to help them understand how important it was to get involved.

  ‘It looks like it’s going to be a good afternoon. No rain.’ He looked at his watch. ‘If I make a start now . . .’ He didn’t finish but got up from the table. Paul reached over to him and grabbed his arm.

  ‘Before you tear off, Michael, I need a word.’

  Michael guessed Paul wanted to say something about the previous night. ‘Come up to my room. We’ll talk there.’

  As the two of them made off, Kate called out to Paul. He stopped and looked round at her. She thought he looked annoyed. ‘I want to see you before you go out. I’ll be in the study.’

  Paul nodded and disappeared through the open door. Kate sighed heavily and eased herself up from the table.

  Paul hurried up to Michael’s room and went in without knocking. ‘Why aren’t you coming with me?’ he asked as he burst in.

  Michael spun round. ‘Paul, I want no part of whatever it is you’re getting into.’ He stepped past his brother and closed the door. ‘I could have been killed last night. So could you.’

  Paul pursed his lips and shook his head. ‘But we weren’t, and that’s all that matters.’

  ‘Matters?’ Michael repeated angrily. ‘Paul, you’re getting out of your depth and I don’t want to be involved.’ He pointed back towards his window. ‘This is what I want to be involved in: the estate. This is our life, Paul. It’s what we should be working for.’

  Paul sat down on the bed. He looked up at his brother. ‘Michael, I got one helluva buzz out of last night.’ He shook his head slowly and looked down towards the floor. ‘I couldn’t believe it when I woke up this morning. I want more.’

  Michael moved so that he was standing in front of him. ‘Paul, do you know what you’re saying?’

  Paul laughed. ‘Yes, that’s the rub: I do know what I’m saying. There’s a lot of money to be made out there, providing you know the right people and know what you’re doing.’

  ‘You mean like Ringo?’ he snapped.

  Paul smiled. ‘Listen, Ringo is just another local thug. There are bigger fish out there, and Ringo isn’t one of them.’

  ‘But you think you are.’

  Paul put his hand up. ‘Not yet, brother. But with help I’ll get there.’

  ‘Well, you won’t get any help from me.’

  Paul stood up. ‘Look, if I can separate the legitimate stuff from the rest, will you still help me?’

  Michael shook his head. ‘No. I’ve thought about this a lot, Paul; long before last night. The estate is where I want my future to lie, nowhere else.’ He laughed. ‘It took a good hiding to help me make up my mind. We’re done, right?’

  Paul put his hand on his brother’s shoulder. ‘If that’s what you want, Michael.’

  The bond between the two boys was so strong that each of them felt a kind of metamorphosis taking place between them. That uncanny link between twins that no single person could understand helped to ease the tension until it melted away. Paul understood Michael, and Michael understood Paul.

  ‘I’ll catch up with you later. Got to go and see Kate now.’

  He left Michael in his room and went down to the estate office. Kate was sitting at her desk tapping away at a calculator and making notes as she went along. Paul stood at the open doorway for a while, watching her work. He loved her dearly and felt so sorry that she had lost the only man she had loved and had to bear the burden of managing the estate. She had told them so much about their father and through that, he learned of the strength of that love. He knew too that he was going to let her down. It wasn’t something he wanted, but he believed he would always be a free spirit and run in the direction he chose.

  He coughed gently and walked in. ‘You wanted to see me, Kate?’

  The boys had both taken to using Kate’s name rather than call her ‘mother’. The change had been gradual, and Kate had found no reason to challenge them over it. She stopped working and leaned back in her captain’s chair. ‘Yes. Shut the door please, Paul.’

  Paul did as he was asked and pulled up a chair. ‘What’s it about?’

  ‘It’s about Michael,’ she began. ‘I know you two look alike, but you’re as different as chalk and cheese beneath the surface. I can see the changes in the pair of you. Michael is the gentler one: emotionally, I mean. You seem to have more determination about you. You’re tougher.’ She looked at him with fondness in her eyes. ‘I worry about both of you, but I worry about Michael more. Can you understand that? Paul nodded, but said nothing. Kate went on. ‘That fight you got into last night; what really happened?’

  Paul decided to tell Kate as much as he could without telling her about the package. ‘We were delivering an item to a place in Horndean. Big box. Don’t know what was in it. TV? Set of saucepans? No idea. Anyway, as we pulled up outside the address, two guys jumped us. I think they were probably after emptying the van or something. Anyway, one of them got to Michael first and was giving him a hammering before I could get there. We got it sorted out in the end. Michael got the worst of it, though.’

  ‘Why didn’t you call the police?’

  Paul shrugged. ‘I don’t think the police would have been much help. Anyway,’ he shrugged, ‘Michael won’t be coming with me again; says he wants to devote more time to the estate.’

  Kate seemed to accept Paul’s sanitized version of the truth and changed the subject. ‘That’s really wh
y I wanted to talk to you, Paul: about the estate.’

  ‘What about it?’

  ‘In less than three years, you will become the legal owner. I think you should begin preparing yourself for that rather than running around the country delivering parcels and moving furniture.’

  ‘I make money,’ he answered simply.

  Kate shook her head. ‘It’s not about money; it’s about you becoming lord and master of Clanford. The estate is barely making enough to pay the bills, and if we aren’t careful, we’ll be up to our eyeballs in debt. This will be your debt, Paul, and you need to give that some serious thought.’

  Paul leaned forward and laid a hand on the desk top. ‘Why don’t we give Michael the title? Why not let him inherit the estate? After all, he loves it. He told me that just now. All he wants to do is work here and not follow me around all day. He’s perfect.’

  Kate smiled. ‘I’m inclined to agree with you: he would be a better choice; but it can’t happen.’

  ‘Why not?’

  ‘Paul, when you inherit the title, you will be liable for inheritance tax. Your father took out an insurance designed to cover that if it was necessary.’ She paused and let it sink in. ‘You probably won’t have much to pay and if you do, the insurance will cover it. But if we let the title pass on to Michael, it will be interpreted as a gift by the Inland Revenue and he will be liable to capital gains tax on the value of the property. That’s about as simple as I can put it, but it will be a mess.’

  Paul whistled softly through his teeth. Although Clanford was broke, the value of the land would run into millions. There was no way then that Michael could be allowed to inherit the title unless Paul died, and he wasn’t about to let that happen.

  ‘Shit!’

  ‘Paul!’

  He laughed. ‘Sorry, Kate, but you’ve just ruined a good idea.’

  She agreed. ‘Wish there was some way round it.’

  ‘There is, Kate. I’ll let Michael run the estate as the owner. He will make all the decisions. Run the place as if it was his.’

  It wasn’t much, and it wouldn’t hold up if a legal dispute ever cropped up, but it was a straw they could cling to. Kate would have preferred Paul to assume the role as rightful owner, but she knew that Michael offered the best chance of pulling Clanford Estate out of the doldrums. With her help, of course.

  ‘OK, Paul. We’ll let Michael begin taking on more responsibility.’ She lowered her voice and pointed across the desk at him. ‘But you must, I repeat, must always defer to Michael’s decisions regarding the estate from now on. Is that clear.’ He stood up and walked round the desk and kissed her on the cheek.

  ‘I love it when you get serious,’ he joked. ‘But don’t worry, Kate; I won’t make trouble for you.’

  She squeezed Paul’s hand and shoved him away. ‘Get on with you. Now leave me: I’ve got work to do.’

  The XK 140 purred beautifully as Paul drove over the top of Portsdown Hill and down towards Cosham. He had the hood down, enjoying the rush of the wind through his hair. Traffic was light for the time of day, and Paul expected no hold-ups as he motored past the Hilsea Lido and on towards a small club on the edge of Alexandra Park. There was sufficient parking for four cars, and all four spaces had registration numbers painted on the wall of the club. In one of the slots was a classic Mercedes 230 SL sports car. It belonged to the club owner. Paul swung the Jaguar into a vacant slot. He left the hood down, set the immobilizer and walked into the club.

  There was nothing going on inside other than a barman talking to a customer. Paul acknowledged him and pointed towards a door marked ‘Private’. The barman nodded and Paul knocked on the door before letting himself in. The owner, known as Finnegan, was sitting behind a desk with his feet up. There was a glass of something at his elbow. He was smoking a cigar and watching a pornographic video. He looked round at Paul and swung his feet off the desk. Then he got out of the chair and turned the video player off. He sat down again and asked Paul what he wanted. Paul tossed the package onto the desk and waited for Finnegan’s reaction.

  Finnegan wasn’t a big man in the physical sense, but he was a big player in the underworld that ran different areas of Portsmouth and Southsea. He had a moustache that curved over his upper lip. It was neatly trimmed as was his hair; cut into what was often called a ‘Beatle’ cut. Paul noticed his shoes were high-heeled, crocodile-skin cowboy boots, and his neckerchief was knotted loosely in true cowboy fashion. The shirt he was wearing was probably handmade and cost more than Paul earned in a week. But Paul wasn’t interested in Finnegan’s sartorial choices, simply in finding an opening that could get him the action he was beginning to fancy.

  ‘So what’s this?’ Finnegan asked, looking nonplussed. He didn’t touch the package.

  ‘I took a severe kicking for that last night.’ He pulled over an empty chair and sat down. ‘Seems you’re dealing on someone else’s patch.’

  Finnegan frowned. ‘Whose patch?’

  ‘Ringo’s: up at Horndean.’

  Finnegan pointed at the package. ‘That one of mine?’

  Paul nodded. ‘Picked it up here yesterday.’

  ‘So what do you mean: you got a severe kicking?’

  Paul told him what had happened, leaving nothing out. Finnegan considered this for a while; then he picked up the phone and dialled a number. After a minute or so he tipped his head back.

  ‘Ringo?’ He laughed. ‘What are you up to, you old bastard?’ He listened, then butted in. ‘Look, we’ve got a bit of a problem. Seems two of your heavies showed up last night and gave my delivery boy a bit of a hiding. Why was that?’ He listened for a while. ‘Wait, wait. You say they weren’t your boys?’ He nodded slowly as he listened again. Then he looked across at Paul and held his hand over the mouthpiece. ‘Ringo says they weren’t his men. Seems it was a couple of hustlers trying to scare you off. They were after that, right?’ He pointed at the package. Paul shrugged. Finnegan went back to the telephone. ‘We’ll deliver tonight. Have someone there, will you?’ He put the phone down and looked over at Paul.

  ‘Drop it off tonight, same time.’

  Paul reached over the desk and took the package. He dropped it onto his lap. ‘’I’ll need paying again if you want me to deliver.’

  Finnegan shook his head. ‘You’ve been paid but you didn’t deliver. So you’ve got to do it again.’

  Paul felt his heart begin to beat a little faster. ‘No. I delivered the drugs last night, on time, and on the premises. If I’d left the package there, Ringo wouldn’t have picked it up because those two heavies would have taken it. You want me to drop it off again, you’ve got to pay again. Only this time I want more.’

  Finnegan’s eyes nearly popped out of his head. ‘You out of your fucking head, boy?’ he snapped. ‘You don’t know who you’re dealing with. I could have you topped here and now, no sweat. You want that?’

  Paul stood up slowly. He was holding the package in his hand. ‘Possession is nine tenths of the law, Finnegan. I’ve got the drugs and I’ll deliver them. But if you don’t pay, I’ll charge Ringo double what you charge him. Tell him it’s a new tariff.’

  Finnegan scrambled to his feet, his temper going into overdrive. ‘Why you little damned fucking punk, you’re dead.’ He reached down beneath his desk as Paul rammed the bolt gun against his forehead.

  The moment he did that, Paul froze inside; he knew instantly that he had overstepped the mark: whoever blinked first would be dead. This wasn’t his game; he was new to it. He could feel his heart racing and beads of sweat began to prickle his skin. Finnegan looked as cool as a cucumber, and Paul realized he had no choice now but to bluff it out.

  ‘Don’t do it, Finnegan, or you’ll be dead before you touch that button.’

  Finnegan didn’t move, but his eyes moved up beneath the bulk of the bolt gun, now firmly pressed to the centre of his forehead. He’d never seen anything like that before. He kept both hands above the desk.

  With his free hand,
Paul motioned Finnegan to sit down. When he was sitting still, his hands motionless, Paul eased the gun away from his forehead.

  ‘What the fuck’s that?’ Finnegan asked, his voice still strong and firm. There was no fear there.

  ‘It’s an old Cash Special bolt gun. It’s used to stun cattle.’ Paul was pleased he had rummaged around the old tackle room. The look on Finnegan’s face sent a thrill surging through his body and although he was enjoying this moment of complete power over somebody, he could feel his bravado fading away. He still needed to carry this show of toughness, though. ‘It would make shit of your brains, Finnegan, if you’ve got any,’ he added.

  Finnegan was an old hand at this game and it wasn’t the first time he had looked down the barrel of a gun. But this was different: somehow the boy had shown remarkable toughness and, he had to admit, bravado in dealing with those heavies the previous night and now this. He didn’t seem to care that he was facing down one of the meanest villains in Portsmouth, a man who could summon up a veritable army of heavies willing to make mincemeat of him and dump him in the Solent. He held his hands up in a defensive gesture.

  ‘OK, what’s your name?’ Paul told him. ‘Put the gun down and talk for a moment.’ Paul didn’t move; he just kept the gun pointing at the man’s head. Finnegan closed his eyes. ‘Look, put the gun down. You can keep it pointed at me if you want, but we have to talk.’

  Paul knew that the gun would be ineffective if he opened up the distance between him and Finnegan’s forehead. But he gambled on Finnegan not knowing that and lowered the gun. Finnegan sighed heavily.

  ‘You’ve shown a lot of spunk coming here like this,’ Finnegan began. ‘You’re a bit of a hot head, but I could use someone like you.’

  ‘How do I know you won’t shoot me the moment my back’s turned?’

  Finnegan laughed. ‘You should have thought of that before you pulled this stunt.’

  Paul glared at him intensely. ‘So what are you suggesting?’