EPISODE ONE HUNDRED AND FORTY-EIGHT
As soon as Mike had
finished cutting Ted Dorling’s hair, he glanced around the solicitor’s living
room to see which new collection of
colour supplement rubbish had been acquired by the Dorling household, purchased
either by Ted, or his wife, Sandy. They were both avid collectors of everything
from small china animals threatened by extinction, prominently displayed in a
teak cabinet, to sets of commemorative coins.
Mike’s eyes alighted on a set of china plates, commemorating British film
stars, that had been carefully attached to the wall. Ted caught Mike staring at
an Angus McBean portrait of Vivien Leigh on the plate nearest the fireplace.
‘Beautiful woman,’ the solicitor commented. ‘My son came home from university
and wanted to know who she was.’
Mike chuckled. ‘I mentioned Robert Mitchum to a young chap who works in my
girlfriend’s wine bar, and he hadn’t a clue. So much for fame and living
forever.’
‘We always remember the evil ones though.
It seems as if they’re the only ones who really make their mark in this
world.’
‘I think quite a lot of people have heard of Jesus Christ.’
‘There are exceptions. No, it seems to me that wannabe criminals try to emulate
the tyrants for no other reason than they are role models. My mother’s charity shop, for instance – you
must have read about the pornographic video switch.’
Mike shook his head, ‘I never read the local papers.’
‘You don’t?’ Dorling sounded so surprised, as if Mike had told him he never
washed.
‘Let’s face it,’ Mike said, ‘I bet when nine-eleven happened, the local rag
probably had headlines about the farmer’s market or the cost of car parking.’
‘Well there’s a clue in the fact that they’re local papers, Mike. They have
local news, you see.’
For a moment Mike thought Ted Dorling was joking, then realised the solicitor
was patronising him.
‘Yes, I do know that, Ted,’ he almost snapped. ‘But there are limits to local
interest. I bet this charity video thing was a storm in a tea cup.’
Dorling blew out his cheeks, highlighting the enormity of the beyond-belief
crime. As he walked Mike to the front door, he revelled in the story. When he
got to the part about the suspect’s Nazi tattoo in the Union Jack, Mike froze,
and then he clicked his fingers as he remembered something of importance.
‘I saw a young yob with a tattoo like that, two or three days ago. No, it was
three days ago, because that’s when I did all my Uckfield customers.’
‘You saw this chap in Uckfield?’
‘Him and another bloke. Drinking in The Oak. I’d never have gone in there; it’s
just that I had some time to kill before my next customer.’
Urgency crept into Dorling’s voice. ‘The Oak you say? And now I’ve got them.
Bang to rights! I’m going to get on to the police, right away.’
*
Because of her pregnancy, and because of the devastating news about Paul’s
business collapse and the ruination of his parents’ retirement nest-egg,
Vanessa had almost forgotten his lie about going to the Canary Isles when he
was clubbing it in London, instead. The truth surfaced from her subconscious as
the rest of the problems cleared a space in her head, and she determined to
speak to him. Although he was clearly in the wrong, she still didn’t want him
to think that she had gone prying through his private correspondence weeks ago.
As soon as he had gone out to visit his parents, to see what could be done
about the terrible debt, Vanessa armed herself with a bucket, sponge, polish
and dusters, and went in to his study, pretending she was having a good clean.
Paul returned home in the late afternoon, whistling brightly, as if squandering
his parents’ life-savings had been a minor oversight. When he saw all the
cleaning implements through the open door of his study, his brain shifted into
a warning gear. Then his eyes widened in alarm as he saw his bills and invoices
spread out on the coffee table.
Vanessa came in from the kitchen.
‘Paul!’ she snapped, making him jump like a startled rabbit. ‘We need to talk.’
Paul had always believed attack was the best form of defence. ‘What the hell
d’you think you’re doing? That’s my private correspondence.’
‘Not any more, it isn’t. And I want some answers.’
‘Answers?’
‘Yes, about the supposed trip to the Canary Isles.’
She watched him carefully, but his face remained inscrutably blank. This in
itself, she decided, was an admission of guilt.
‘You lied to me about going to the Canary Isles. All the time you were clubbing
it in London. Have you got another woman?’
He shook his head rapidly. ‘Of course not.’
‘There’s no of course about it. If you can tell one lie about...’
He interrupted her. ‘You wouldn’t understand.’
‘Try me. Try telling the truth for once.’
He sighed deeply, indicating a deep frustration, almost as if everyone else was
at fault.
‘If you must know, I’ve been channelling all my energies into what I really
want to do in life. These club visits were to do with networking, building up
relationships, and doing deals.’
‘Go on.’
‘I’ve been working towards the big opportunity in my life. A chance to make
shed loads of money if it comes off.’ He saw the sharp, cold expression on her
face, and corrected himself hastily. ‘Not if
it comes off. I mean when it comes
off. It’s just a question of sitting tight. It will happen eventually.’
‘And what is this wonderful, money-making scheme?’ Vanessa said, her voice dripping with
sarcasm.
‘I’m trying to set up a movie.’
‘What!?’
‘As a producer. You know I told you I went to film school when I was
nineteen...’
Her patience about to crack, Vanessa cut in, ‘I know, and you made a short film
which won a competition. So what? That doesn’t mean you can make it big in
Hollywood.’
Annoyingly, Paul smiled placidly. ‘Who said anything about Hollywood? I’m talking about a British gangster movie with a
modest budget of five million.’
‘And what about all the money you owe your parents?’
Paul shrugged and pursed his lips. ‘Well, they’re partly to blame.’
‘How d’you work that out?’
‘My father owned toy shops on the south coast, and he wanted me to sort of
follow in his footsteps with a chain of travel agencies. They pushed me in a
direction I didn’t want to go. I always wanted to make movies, and it’s the
old, old story of: “Get a proper job, my son”.’
‘And now, flat broke,’ Vanessa shouted, ‘you expect to break into the big-time
film world with only one five minute student film to your credit.’
‘Four minute, actually.’
Vanessa began crying, while Paul stood rooted to the spot, watching her, almost
framing her in an imaginary screen. He smiled as he captured his fantasy on
celluloid.
*
Ronan and Callum had just finished a Chinese takeaway, washed down with Stella
Artois, and they were feeling bored and argumentative. Ronan
got up off the dilapidated sofa, intending to turn on the television.
‘Why did we need to buy Stella?’ he complained.
‘You wanted to buy that cheap supermarket shit,’ Callum explained.
‘I know, but my money ain’t going to last forever.’
‘Relax.’
‘How can I? If the money runs out...’
‘You’ll just have to get another job.’
‘What about you?’
‘Don’t start all that bollocks again.’ Callum’s head spun towards the entrance
door to their grubby flat.
‘I’m just saying,’ Ronan moaned, ‘how if we’re going to get some money we
should both get some work.’
‘Shut up!’ Callum whispered. ‘Did you hear that?’
Ronan’s mouth opened into his usual goofy expression. ‘No. What?’
‘Thought I heard the door creaking.’
At that precise moment, there was a loud crash, and the door caved in, sending
splinters of wood flying. A SWAT squad burst in with rifles trained on Callum
and Ronan.
‘Police! Freeze!’
But the only projectiles that were fired were chicken balls in curry sauce and
special fried rice, as a terrified Ronan vomited over his friend.
IN EPISODE 149
Amy Dorling is annoyed with her son