The Circle Now Is Made (King's Way Book 1) (15 page)

“Why that area?” asked Sarah, slightly rebuffed by Greg’s independence.

“Two reasons: I know some very isolated sites up there, and I’d like to talk to the tramp – the man with a bag - while I’m in
exile
.” Greg smiled at the prospect: "I reckon I've as much chance of finding him as the Borgias had of becoming marriage counsellors. I’ll go and find Bart or Si - I’ll be in touch.”

On his way, Greg took the risk of calling briefly at the Holly Tree to explain his situation to Eddy and ask some questions.

“You're sure the tramp was in here that night Hud and Ten discussed the message?” asked Greg, reassured that the barman had promised to keep an ear to the ground.

"Positive."

“And do you know of a man named Edwin Ralph?”

“Never heard of him,” Eddy replied, “and I doubt if Isaac has either. Not what you'd call a mixer and he wouldn't be much help if he was: bit like trying to hold a conversation with a scarecrow!”

“Mmm.” Greg sighed heavily. “Worth a try, I suppose. Will you keep a lookout for the youth with the eye-patch?”

“I’ll find out everything I can,” assured Eddy, and he handed Greg a card. “If you have trouble and can’t catch me here, ring my mobile. If I can help I will.”

Greg thanked him and left, reassured to have Eddy on side. He then tracked down Bart, who collected the Ranger whilst Greg prepared the caravan for towing. On the way he called briefly to explain matters to Jan, who was understandably upset by the development. Like Sarah, she thought Greg should stay and face the music.

“What about the cafe?” she asked tearfully, “I’ll
never
sort it on my own.”

“Don’t worry,” assured Greg, “I’ll be back one way or another. I swear. Keep your ears open for anything suspicious, and tell Eddy
everything!
I'll call you...”

***

"Don't take the motorway, or any major roads where possible – we're limited to sixty anyway with the 'van attached." Greg, his paranoia escalating by the minute, set the Satnav for Bromyard. "We'll travel up through Chepstow and Ross way. It will take much longer, though the journey's pleasant. Not that we've time for sightseeing."

Like everyone else, Bart tried to talk sense into Greg throughout the journey. "Where’s young Nigel?” he asked as they headed north, skirting the Forest of Dean. “Surely if he tells the law what happened, and that it was his idea to give the youth a lift, you’ll be in the clear.”

“I’ve a feeling Nigel's going to be difficult to find,” replied Greg, shaking his head gloomily, “and a stronger feeling they’ll nail him the instant he surfaces. Neither of us will be allowed to disappear again.”

“But they’ve got to
prove
you’re guilty.”

“They’ve enough to arrest me, Bart, and the thought of being detained is enough. If they want to lock me up - even for a night - they’re going to have to find me. That’s final!” Greg went on to tell Bart of events in the Holly Tree, and how certain he was that Penmaric
had
left a legacy. "Of sorts – somewhere. Vague to say the least I know."

“From what you’ve said,” replied Bart, “doesn’t it strike you that Penmaric realised his time was up? Why else would he leave a message?”

“I thought of that,” replied Greg. “You think it likely he’d been threatened, is that your drift?”

“Well he could have been. No point in getting carried away though, I mean, Penmaric did have a weak heart. He’d been visited by 'is doctor the day he died.”

“I didn’t know that,” said Greg with surprise, “... that means he probably wouldn't have needed a post-mortem.” He pondered for a moment before asking Bart if he’d heard of Edwin Ralph.

“The name definitely rings a bell; name of a firm or summat, but I can’t just call it to mind.”

“Could
well
be the name of a company. I’m certain I know it from the midlands.” Greg frowned thoughtfully. “I’ve seen the name on the back of a lorry or some-such. Anyway, if you find out, let Eddy know - or if you see anything of the youth with the eye-patch.”

“Will do,” promised Bart, “but I doubt he’ll show his face near Trevelly again. Too easily identified, I reckon.”

“I'm sure you're right. Gone to ground probably, and the tramp the same I'm sure.”

“I doubt as you’ll get far if you finds 'im,” replied Bart doubtfully. “Even if he 'eard summat, I doubt as he’d retain it. Penmaric’s answering machine's more cooperative – an' more sensitive!”

When they eventually reached the northern outskirts of Herefordshire, Greg directed Bart to a remote site he’d visited years previously, some twenty miles north-west of the city. It was little more than an obscure field at the rear of a farm, not unlike the one in Cornwall, and with no more amenities. A standpipe tap - there primarily to serve a pig-trough – a wooden shed housing a chemical disposal unit and a chipped stone sink comprised the total facilities.

“Not been tarted up as fancy as site you was on in Trevelly.” Bart grinned derisively. “'Ard to say which is pig-pen.” Greg didn’t mind; there was little danger of him being located, and confinement in a caravan was infinitely preferable to a cell.

“What'll you do for transport?” asked Bart.

“I’ve got a few hundred left,” replied Greg, “I’ll see if I can pick up an old banger with some ticket left on it. I can always sell it again when the heat’s died down.”

“All seems bloody barmy to me,” said Bart scratching his head, “I doubt as they'm even lookin' for you.”

“If I believed for a minute you're right,” nodded Greg, “I’d never go to these lengths.” Just then an old farmer joined them, rather more surprised to have an out of season visitor than his Cornish counterpart had been - though he'd no objection to Greg staying.

“I hope to be working in the area,” explained Greg, almost biting his tongue at the thought of a fresh string of lies in the making. “I've been here before. You’re Alf Cropper, aren’t you?”

“'Sright, I remember you now,” nodded the round, weathered figure. “Used to come years ago with your family – couple o' nippers as I recall; buggered if I can remember your name, though.”

“Greg,” was the simple reply. He was anxious to avoid the same trap again.
While Greg and the farmer talked, Bart was busy setting up the caravan supports and disconnecting the Ranger in readiness for his return.

“How would we contact you in a hurry?” asked Bart as he led Red resignedly from the vehicle; the dog now almost conditioned to life as an itinerant.

Greg turned to the farmer. “Mind if I give Bart your phone number? It would only be used in an emergency.”

“You could 'ave it wi' pleasure,” said Cropper, “if on'y I had one. I uses phone at pub I’m afraid.”

Greg considered not being on tap might be advantageous, though he arranged with Bart to ring Cropper's local, The Malthouse, in an emergency.

 “Now,” said Cropper as Bart drove off, “my old ears might be failin' me, but did you mention as you was in the market for a motor…?”

The van was old, battered, filthy inside and out – more so in than out - and just the sort of vehicle Hud would enthuse about - but it had four months tax and MOT.

“What more could I expect for sixty quid?” said Greg, “just the job!”

“Well, I on'y uses truck nowadays,” replied Cropper, surprised by Greg’s enthusiasm, “so you might as well get some use out on it. You’ll get your money back for bits when you’m done of it.” Greg nodded agreement, though doubted there'd be much more
than
bits after a few hundred miles.

“I’ll get back to the house and get pans on, then,” said the amiable figure, “no wife to cook for me nowadays.”

“I'm sorry, I didn't realise.” Greg patted his dog as watched Cropper amble back to the farm. “Still as colourful, Red: same trilby on by the looks of it,
and
that incongruously expensive silk neckerchief. He must be very contented, Red; time hasn’t changed
him
.”

The pair climbed into the van and drove back across a field to the caravan, then Greg put the kettle on and sat with Red, much as he'd done on his arrival in Cornwall.

“Funny,” he said to the placid dog, “I’m in an even worse situation than I was a few weeks ago but, confinement aside, I don’t feel
quite
as desperate. I think we're becoming accomplished recluses.”

Greg sat and pondered over recent events as he sipped his tea. Months earlier he'd been a well-heeled businessman with all the worries in the world. Weeks later he’d been reduced to an out of work itinerant, with no permanent home and a few thousand in cash. Only days before he'd been over the moon with progress on the cabin and had started looking to the future. Now suddenly he was a recluse again: a fugitive from justice – or its miscarriage - with only a small amount of cash between him and starvation. His wife, children, and business had all somehow relieved him of their burdens – only to be replaced by the most complex dilemma he’d ever faced.

Greg finished his tea and took Red for a walk across the high open farmland surrounding the site, observing the first tell-tale signs of spring as they went. It was what his grandmother would have called a “kindly day” - mild as March days go, and one that pretends spring has arrived.

Over the approaching weeks Greg was to find it hadn’t.

At first he set to with dynamic resolve to find the missing tramp, though it's fair to add he spent a fair amount of time exploring local pubs too. He was sitting in The Malthouse one lunchtime pondering, as ever it seemed, as to how he'd found himself in such a predicament.

“I wonder how things are in Trevelly,” he said to his beloved Red – who'd also taken to pub life, “and how Sarah’s going along.”

For obvious reasons, it eased Greg's angst to think of Sarah: with summer approaching the possibilities seemed endless – always assuming he could resolve his dilemma, of course. When they’d run out of rooms in the immense house, he mused, there were the Italian gardens; the summerhouse; the back of the Ranger; and perhaps - almost wishful thinking - he might get her into bed. Greg certainly wished he was there with her at that moment.

“I wonder if she’ll ever come round to considering me as a serious proposition?” he asked Red with a grin, “and not just a bit of rough on the side.”

Despite her somewhat frivolous outlook, Greg felt he could easily fall for Sarah - if he hadn’t already

Chapter Ten

“Penny for them,” said a voice, upon which Greg looked up to see a well-dressed man leaning against the bar.

“Oh, hello,” said Greg with a smile. “Sorry… miles away. I'm Greg.”

"Hemmings, Ray Hemmings. Mind if I join you?" The pair shook hands as the newcomer seated himself at the table with Greg. He was of late middle-age with a fresh complexion and greying sandy hair. Boisterous, genial, jolly even; the type always in trouble at school, assessed Greg.

It transpired from the ensuing conversation that Hemmings was a rep who regularly called at The Malthouse for “a little lunch” while he was in the area.

“I like the pub,” he said, “it has ambiance."

Greg looked around the bar - he’d not taken much notice of it, apart from observing how welcoming the open fire was.

"It certainly has character,” he replied eventually, tongue in cheek. The bar was an original oak-beamed affair, with a traditional open brick fireplace - cluttered and fussy, but nonetheless homely. A typical country bar, the whole area was hung with horse brasses, pan-hooks, pans, horseshoes and so on, though in overwhelming quantities.

“Are you local?” asked the rep.

“No - I - er...” Greg paused. Whilst acknowledging that his predicament called for economy, he resolved to be as honest as the situation allowed. “I’m out of work at the moment,” he explained. “Had a business - security and home improvements, but it folded. So I’m unemployed; living in a caravan down the road here.”

“I’m sorry to hear that,” replied the rep. “Still, you’re not alone - I’m still waiting for this upturn they keep promising.” He paused and finished his beer in one long draught.

"Beautiful, the bitter here is. Another?"

"Please," said Greg, happy to oblige. "Magnificent isn't it? Tastes like the stuff my granddad used to drink."

"So you used to pinch a crafty swig, too. Funny thing that, how booze can make liars and thieves of ten year olds, even." Hemmings paused and looked out of the window. “Your van out the back here?”