‘Great!’ she said, sounding genuinely pleased.
‘And I might have got nearest the pin on the seventeenth – that’s a two-hundred-quid prize!’
‘Fantastic!’ There was a brief pause and she asked, ‘What time do you think you’ll be home?’
He looked at his watch. It was just gone 5 p.m. ‘Not late. Why, darling?’
‘I’ve had a call about a job that sounds quite substantial and lucrative, a new-build in Henfield. The gentleman I spoke to said he’s been let down by the builders he was planning to use and that you’d been highly recommended to him. But he needs to see you very urgently today, if you’re interested.’
‘Can’t it wait until tomorrow?’
‘I thought you were going to London to take the painting to Bonhams first thing? I told him you weren’t available tomorrow and he said he couldn’t wait until Thursday.’
‘What’s his name?’
‘Mike Elkington – he sounds American.’
‘Doesn’t ring a bell.’
‘He was very charming – I think you should see him this evening, we haven’t had a decent new-build in quite a while, and he said if you can give him a price he’s happy with he won’t go out to tender. What time can you be home?’
In the background, Harry heard Bob Sansom announce the winners of nearest the pin on the thirteenth hole, and he was anxious not to miss the next announcement. Giving himself some margin, he said, ‘I could be home by seven.’
‘I’ll call Mr Elkington and tell him.’
‘Love you,’ he said.
‘Love my champion!’
Ending the call, he sat back down, only to stand up moments later and be awarded his £200 nearest the pin prize. And then again, after just a few minutes, he and his three teammates stood up to be presented with envelopes containing vouchers of £250 each for the pro shop, as well as fancy golfing umbrellas.
What a result! And when he got home, with luck there would be an even bigger result. He just had to hope this Mr Elkington wasn’t planning on nailing too hard a bargain, and would be willing to pay for a reliable builder of quality.
84
Tuesday, 5 November
When he finally left the clubhouse, a little later than he’d intended, Harry was feeling elated. And tomorrow he would collect the painting from the storage depot in Worthing and hand it for safe keeping to Bonhams. Then sit back and wait for the January auction. Maybe, just maybe, if they got really lucky, and it went in as an original Fragonard, they could make so much money from the sale he could forget the building trade altogether. Properly set Tom up, then buy a pad down on the Costa del Sol, escape the rat race and live the good life with Freya. And right now, with all the problems of Vine Cottage, he’d give up this business in a heartbeat.
Shivering against the cold air, with fireworks shooting into the darkness all across the city skyline below him and the volleys of distant explosions, he hurried over the road to the car park, put his golf bag and his sports bag with his golfing clothes into the rear of the Volvo, then climbed into the car, shut the door and immediately switched on the engine, to get the heater going.
Then, before moving off, he googled Mike Elkington and then Michael Elkington on his phone. There were a handful of name matches, but nothing that gave him a clue about the man he would shortly be meeting. No matter, he drove off, very much looking forward to meeting Mr Elkington. And determined to charm him. Oh yes!
Although he was already late, he drove home keeping carefully within the speed limits. And it was good news: although this was Bonfire Night, the roads were quiet. Tom had already been to a big fireworks party at a schoolfriend’s house on Saturday, sensibly arranged to not interrupt his studies during the school week.
As Harry drove up Mackie Crescent, he popped a piece of mint gum in his mouth, to freshen his breath for his potential new client. Approaching home, he saw a swanky Tesla on the street outside. Mr Elkington’s, he presumed, as he drove onto the driveway and parked as usual between the Fiat and his work van.
He glanced at his watch: 7.25 p.m. – a little later than he’d told Freya, but he was confident she would be charming the client. Deciding to leave his kit in the car for now, he strode up to the front door in a sunny mood. The champion coming home to a hero’s welcome!
Not that Jinx gave him any kind of a welcome at all. The cat stood, just inside the front door, its back arched. As he leaned down to stroke it, it sprinted away as if fired from a torpedo tube. The lounge door, to his left, was open and he presumed Freya was in there with Mr Elkington.
He checked his appearance in the coat-stand mirror, straightening his Dyke Golf Club tie and brushing back a few stray strands of hair, then at the last minute, remembering his gum, hurried over to the kitchen and dropped it in the pedal bin. The television was on in there as normal, a sitcom playing. Freya kept it on all the time she was home, whether in the kitchen or not.
He went back into the hallway. Checked his tie again in the mirror and his posture, then with a warm smile for his potential new client, he strode into the lounge.
And felt as though he’d stepped onto a frozen lake and the ice was cracking beneath him.
85
Tuesday, 5 November
Before his brain could process the surreal sight that greeted him, both of Harry Kipling’s arms were seized and yanked sharply behind him. He stared, scared and bewildered, at three hooded strangers in the living room. Each wore a black balaclava, a black oversuit of the style worn by CSIs at crime scenes, and blue latex gloves.
Two of them, man-mountains, stood either side of him. He felt his hands being bound behind him by something sharp that cut into his wrists, and instantly he was forced down onto a chair.
Freya was on one sofa, grey gaffer tape over her mouth and securing her arms also behind her. He could see the terror in her eyes as she desperately tried to signal something to him, but he couldn’t figure out what. Tom was on the opposite sofa, his arms similarly taped behind him. His right sweatshirt sleeve was rolled up to his shoulder, revealing his diabetes monitoring disc. On the coffee table, beside a large tray of caramel, chocolate and sugar-coated jam doughnuts, lay a dark blue pen. Tom’s insulin pen. Beside it was Freya’s phone in its distinctive red cover.
Through the vortex of fear and confusion in his mind, Harry blurted, ‘Who the hell are you? What do you want?’
A tall, lean man, eyes, nostrils and mouth visible through the slits in the balaclava, stood beside Tom. He spoke with a Southern American accent in a voice devoid of humour. ‘Welcome to our little party, Mr Kipling. I’m real sorry if you’re hungry after your golf game, but these are all for your boy, I’m afraid. He’s a growing lad. We might need him to eat one or two to keep his sugar levels up.’
‘Those things are toxic for Tom!’ Harry said in fury. ‘What the hell do you think you’re doing?’
‘Oh, I know exactly what I am doing, Mr Kipling,’ he said. ‘You see, like your boy, I’m a diabetic too,’ he lied, and patted his own left arm. ‘I have the same Libre patch as him. Great technology, eh? Before the discovery of insulin in 1921, the life expectancy for a Type-1 diabetic was three to five years.’ He picked the pen up off the table. ‘Of course, I’m sure you and Mrs Kipling know that, right?’ He made a show of removing the cap of the pen, exposing the needle, then twisted the dial, with a series of clicks. Holding the pen up, he pressed the plunger and sent a small spray of the clear, sour-smelling liquid into the air. ‘Too much insulin can be just as fatal for a diabetic as too little.’ He smiled. ‘Guess you know that too, don’t you?’