“Calls himself Duggie. Can I tell him there’s a job?”
“Sure,” I said. “But tell him it’s like an interview. No promises.”
Two large men were leaning on the oak tree waiting for us beside my car. I knew them from a previous encounter. As before, they were dressed in short-sleeved white shirts and black trousers.
I stopped the trolley about ten yards from them.
“What the hell do you want?” I shouted across.
Luca looked at me in stunned amazement.
“Eh?” he said. He obviously hadn’t seen them, or, if he had, he hadn’t realized they were waiting for us.
“Luca,” I said. “These are the two gentlemen who delivered a message to me in the Kempton parking lot.”
“Oh,” he said. Oh, indeed.
I looked down at the men’s feet. Large, steel-toe-capped work boots, same as before.
“We have another message,” one of them said. He was the taller of the two, the same one who had spoken to me at Kempton. Not that the other one was short. They both were well over six feet. The sidekick made up for his slight lack of height by being a good few inches broader than his more wordy companion. And he just stood silently to one side, bunching his fists.
Surely I was not to be beaten up again, I thought. Not here at this wonderful parkland racetrack, not with all these people about.
“What message?” I said. There was still ten yards between us, and I reckoned that if they made a move towards me I would turn and run. A ten-yard start should be enough for me to reach the relative safety of a busy after-racing bar in the grandstand.
“Luca,” I said quietly, “if they move, run for it. Run like the wind.”
The look on his face was priceless. I’m not sure he realized until that point that he was in any danger.
“My boss says he wants to talk to you,” the man said.
“You can tell your boss to bugger off,” I said.
“He wants to do some business,” the man went on.
“Still tell him to bugger off,” I said. “I don’t do business the same way he does.”
“He wants to buy you out,” he said, ignoring me.
I stood there looking at the man in complete surprise.
“What?” I said, not quite believing what I’d heard.
“He wants to buy your business,” the man said.
“He couldn’t afford it,” I said.
“I don’t think you understand,” said the man. “My boss wants your business, and he’s prepared to pay for it.”
“No,” I almost shouted. “I don’t think you understand. My business is not for sale, and even if it was I wouldn’t sell it to your boss, whoever he might be, for all the tea in China. So go and tell your boss to get stuffed.”
The man flexed his muscles and began to get red in the face.
“My boss says that you can either sell it to him the easy way or lose it to him the hard way.”
“And who exactly is your boss?” I shouted at him.
He didn’t reply but advanced a stride towards me. My head start had just been reduced to nine yards.
“Stay there,” I shouted at him. He stopped. “Who is your boss?” I asked again. Again, he ignored me. And he advanced another stride. Eight yards.
I was at the point of running when another voice came from behind me.
“Hello, Teddy Talbot. You all right?” I turned and breathed a huge sigh of relief. The big man from the betting ring was staggering up the parking lot towards me, together with his band of brothers. “You in need of some help?” he said, only slightly slurring his words.
I turned back to the two bullyboys.
“That would be great,” I said. “I think these two men are just leaving.”
I stared straight at them, and, finally, they decided to give up and go. Luca and I stood surrounded by the cavalry, and we watched as the two men walked across to a black BMW 4× 4 and drove away through the archway and out onto the London Road. I made a mental note of the number plate.
“Were those boys troubling you?” asked my mate, the large guy.
“Some people will do anything to get their losses back from a bookie,” I said somewhat flippantly. “But, thanks to your lot, they didn’t manage it today.”
“You mean those two were trying to rob you,” said another of the group.
“They certainly were,” I said, but not quite in the way I’d made out.
“You should have said so. I’m a policeman.”
He produced his warrant card from his pocket, and I read it: PC Nicholas Boucher, Northamptonshire Constabulary. Off duty, I presumed, in multicolored tropical shirt, baggy shorts and flip-flops.
“I got their car registration,” I said.
“Good,” said PC Boucher. “Now, what exactly did they say to you? Did they demand their money back?”
“Well, no,” I said. “They hadn’t quite, and you guys turning up must have frightened them away before they had a chance to. And I’m only assuming that’s what they wanted. It wouldn’t have been the first time.”
“Oh,” he said, rather disappointed. His case was evaporating before his eyes.“Not much I can do if they hadn’t actually demanded any money from you. But did they threaten you?”
“They looked quite threatening to me,” I said.
“We can’t exactly arrest people for just looking threatening, now can we?” he said ironically.
“No,” I said. “I suppose I can see that. But I’d love to know who they were so I can watch out and avoid them in the future.”
“What was their vehicle registration?” he asked.
I gave it to him.
“No promises,” he said. “It’s against the rules, really.”
He took his mobile phone from his pocket and called a number.
“Jack,” he said into the phone. “Nick Boucher here. Can you do a vehicle check? Registration victor-kilo-five-five-zulu november-victor.” He waited for a while. “Yes,” he said. Then he listened again. “Thanks,” he said finally, and hung up.
“Sorry. That vehicle is registered to a company, not to an individual, so it won’t really help you.”
“Which company?” I asked him.
“Something called HRF Holdings Limited,” he said. “Ever heard of them?”
“No,” I said. I looked at Luca, who said nothing but shrugged his shoulders. “Thanks anyway.”
“Are you guys going to be all right from now on?” said PC Boucher. “I’ve got to get this bunch of drunks home. I’m the designated driver.”
“Yes,” I said. “Thanks.”
“See you next time, Teddy,” said the big guy, staggering a little and giving me a wave. I watched his group lurch over to a white minibus and fall into it. The passengers all waved enthusiastically at me through the windows as poor, sober PC Boucher drove them away. I waved back at them, laughing.
“HRF Holdings,” said Luca. “Do we know them?”
“Not by that name,” I said.
“What, then?” he asked.
“I believe HRF Holdings Limited is a parent company,” I said. “And I think I know one of its children.”
It took me less than an hour to get home, including a few extra trips around the roundabouts to ensure that I wasn’t being followed by a certain black BMW 4× 4 containing a couple of heavies.
I couldn’t see anyone following me, but they wouldn’t have actually needed to. I was sure that whoever their “boss” might be, he would have been able to find out where I lived with ease if he’d wanted to. My name and address were on the electoral rolls, for a start, and I hadn’t bothered to tick the box to keep that information secret.
Consequently, I drove up and down Station Road a couple of times to see if the BMW was parked up somewhere awaiting my arrival. There was no sign of it, but I couldn’t check every street in Kenilworth.
I parked the car in the space in front of the house and made it safely, unchallenged, to my front door.
“Hello,” said Sophie, coming to meet me. “Had a good time?”