‘Lunch time.’
‘Bonus?’
‘Sure, if you do your regular maintenance work as well.’
He shrugged, lay down again on the slider and disappeared. I went back to my desk, phoned Harve and told him, ‘Jogger.’
‘He’s driving?’ He sounded incredulous. ‘He agreed?’
‘The broodmares to Surrey,’ I confirmed. ‘It’s Phil whose box is in for maintenance, isn’t it? Wake him up, twist his arm, sob stuff if you like, tell him his day off’s postponed, we need him to take Vic’s box to Sandown.’
‘OK.’
‘That should cover it,’ I said.
‘Fingers crossed.’
‘Come down here yourself, would you, when you have a minute?’
After the briefest of pauses he said, ‘Right.’
He would be wondering what I wanted but not to the level of worry. At least, I hoped not.
Dave at that point bicycled in across the tarmac and leaned his rusty conveyance against my wood pile. Dave did have a car, even rustier than the cycle, but it spent most of the time out of action. One day, he’d been saying for months, he would equip it with retreads and get it back on the road. No one believed him. He spent his money on greyhounds.
He knocked on the outside door on his way in and appeared in the sitting-room doorway with the martyred air of having stepped out of a tumbril.
‘You wanted me, Freddie?’ He was nervous but trying for bravado: not a success.
‘I want you and Brett to clean that box. It’s due out again before nine.’
‘But, Brett—’ He stopped.
‘Go on.’
‘Harve told you, didn’t he? Brett says he’ll be waiting at the office door for his P45 the second Isobel gets there, then he’s off.’
‘He’s due some wages and holiday money,’ I said, unruffled. ‘You get back on your bike and go and tell him he can have it now, here, in cash, but cleaning that box is yesterday’s job, and if he doesn’t finish it, his unemployment dates from yesterday morning. No pay for yesterday, understand?’
‘You can’t do that,’ Dave said uncertainly.
‘Want to bet? By rights, he should give me a week’s notice. And ask him if he thinks he might ever need a reference.’
Dave gave me a hollow look.
‘Hurry and fetch him,’ I said. ‘And come back yourself.’
When he’d gone I switched on the computer and brought Brett and his affairs to the screen. Every journey he’d done for me was listed there, with dates, times, horses’ names, expenses and notes. The day before’s journey of nine two-year-olds to Newmarket had been entered only as ‘proposed’: no dead bodies yet cluttered the entry.
His terms of employment were there, along with days worked and holiday entitlement earned: no problem at all to put together his present due. I printed a copy of the income information, ready to give to him.
Through the window, I watched Jogger heel-and-toe his way towards the house, a greyish-brown shape like a big shoe box in his hands. He came into the sitting-room and plonked the object down on my chart, not caring about mundane considerations like dirt. He looked surprised when I asked him to lift the box up again so that I could spread a newspaper under it.
‘I had a hell of a job getting it off,’ he said. ‘Like a limpet mine, it was.’
‘Where’s the magnet?’ I asked.
‘Still stuck to the chassis, behind the second fuel tank. Super-glue job, most like. This box came off in the end, though I had to use a tyre lever. No one meant it to move, I’m telling you.’
‘How long would you say it’s been there?’
The box was thick with grime except for a clean circular saucer-sized patch on its underside where it had been in contact with the magnet.
Jogger shrugged unhappily. ‘It’s not in a place I need to inspect all that often.’
‘A week? A month? More?’
‘Dunno,’ he said.
I picked the box up in the newspaper and shook it. It was comparatively light, with no rattle.
‘Empty,’ Jogger said, nodding.
About fifteen inches by ten by six deep, it was a strong old-fashioned grey metal cash box with rounded corners, a recessed carrying handle and a sturdy lock. No key, naturally. A dent on one edge from the tyre lever. The carrying handle, stuck into its recess, wouldn’t lift up.
‘Can you open it?’ I asked. ‘Without breaking it.’
Jogger gave me a sideways look. ‘I could pick the lock if I fetch my tools and you squint the other way.’
‘Go on, then.’
He decided to take the box out to his van for the job and presently with a yellow grin returned with it open.
Nothing inside, not even dust. I put my nose down to it. It smelled surprisingly clean inside considering the grime on the outside. It smelled even fresh, like talcum powder or soap.
‘How difficult was it to search underneath?’ I asked.
‘Easy, on a slider. Very easy over an inspection pit, if you knew where to look. I nearly missed it, though. It’s the same colour as everything else under there. See, that’s it, you wouldn’t expect to see it, unless you knew it was there. You’d have to park that bit over the pit, too, which you wouldn’t normally do.’
‘How long since you had Brett’s box over the inspection pit?’
He raised his eyebrows. ‘Did an oil change, checked the air brakes, say five weeks ago. Total overhaul must’ve been before Christmas. Don’t remember the day.’
‘The computer will have it,’ I said.
Jogger looked across at the dark screen without favour. He liked to be able to invent memories, not have them checked.
‘Thanks, anyway,’ I said warmly. ‘I wouldn’t have found this cash box myself in a million years.’
The yellow teeth made a brief appearance. ‘You want to get under there,’ he said.
But no, I didn’t.
Dave came back on his bicycle followed by Brett, slowly, in his car, neither of them showing much appetite for the morning. They came into the sitting-room, greeted Jogger unenthusiastically and looked without reaction at the dirty grey cash box lying open on the newspaper.
‘Has either of you seen that before?’ I asked neutrally.
Uninterestedly, they said they hadn’t.
‘It’s not my fault the horsebox wasn’t cleaned,’ Brett said defensively. ‘Sandy Smith wouldn’t let me near it last night.’
‘Clean it now, will you, while I assemble your pay packet?’
‘It was Dave’s idea to give that man a lift.’
‘Yes, so you said.’
‘I wouldn’t have done it on my own.’
‘That’s bloody unfair,’ Dave protested furiously.
‘Both of you shut up,’ I said. ‘Clean the box.’
Seething, they both went out and through the window I watched the rigidity of their anger as they marched towards the task. Undoubtedly the picking up of the hitchhiker had been Dave’s doing, but I found I could forgive his irresponsibility more easily than Brett’s self-righteousness. They had both for sure pocketed Kevin Keith Ogden’s money, although nothing would get them to say how much.
Jogger said, pointing at the cash box, ‘What do you want me to do with that?’
‘Oh... just leave it here. And thanks.’
‘Where’s Brett off to in that box today?’ he asked, following my gaze through the window.
‘Nowhere. He’s leaving the firm. I’ll be driving it myself.’
‘Straight up? Then I’ll do you a favour.’
I switched my attention to his grubby, lined, fifty-three-year-old face, the wily exterior of an old soldier who knew every skiving trick of the trade but lived by his own code of strict honesty in some respects, notably for anything that moved on wheels.
‘You’ve got a strong active uncovered magnet under that box,’ he informed me. ‘If you’re not careful, it’ll pick up iron bars and such and you could catch them on something or back onto them and maybe pierce a fuel tank or worse.’