‘It’s Mrs Patel,’ she announced. ‘She’s in the other room.’
Uncle Ram checked his watch. ‘I am late already, but tell her I can spare a few minutes.’
Mrs Shah shook her head. ‘No, no. It is Anjali she wishes to see.’
In the office of Cougar Coaches sitting opposite Bob Loach was a young man of 16 by the name of Kevin, about to be taken on as the new grease monkey. Loach looked at him and smiled, then turned his gaze to Noreen, who was checking Kevin’s references.
‘Fantastic!’ Noreen proclaimed. ‘He got a C in Woodwork.’
Loach winked at Kevin. ‘I’m not taking him on to give a lecture in French, you know, Noreen. He’s just an apprentice.’
Noreen intercepted the male club wink, abruptly deciding to examine callow Kevin a bit more closely. It was hardly a pleasant errand given his unwashed hair, unshaven face and the sweatmarks under his armpits.
‘True,’ she reluctantly concurred with her husband. ‘But I think Kevin has a lot to learn about personal hygiene. Haven’t you, Kevin?’ She paused for a brief moment, to see if he understood what she meant. ‘Beginning with what it means.’
Loach glowered at Noreen. ‘All right, lad, go see John Barraclough. Tell him you’re hired.’ He offered a last word of advice. ‘Remember, Kevin. We all have to pull our weight here.’
Noreen returned the references to the boy. ‘In other words, luv, the only passengers we carry pay to get on the bus.’
Kevin nodded, getting to his feet while mumbling his thanks, then stopped at the door. ‘Hope your thumb gets better, Mr Loach.’
Noreen jumped in before Loach could reply. ‘I’m sure Jack Horner will watch where he sticks his thumb next time.’
His expression unsure, Kevin made a quick exit.
When he was gone, Loach turned on Noreen.
‘Look, Noreen …’ he grumbled.
But she was already back at work and didn’t bother to look up.
The mother of Raj Patel was not crying; she was weeping. For her there was little comfort in surroundings of the Shah home decorated to resemble an idealized memory of Bombay. For her there was nowhere to hide from being treated as an alien untouchable in a pervasive and powerful class society. For her son she felt powerless, helpless, terrified.
All this convulsive anguish Anjali could feel as well, holding Mrs Patel’s hands and trying to calm her.
‘My boy is a good boy,’ she sobbed. ‘You work with the policemen. You tell them that. My Raj could never do what they say he did. You tell them they have made a mistake.’
Anjali wasn’t sure whether it was a good sign or a bad one that his mother could believe no evil of her son, but she knew it was natural, and she shared Mrs Patel’s heartache. What was more difficult for Anjali was to be professional, and dispassionate.
‘Mrs Patel, I know Raj is a good boy …’ That was as much reassurance as she should offer, in her official capacity. ‘I’ll do what I can with the police,’ she promised, although she was honour-bound to state the pertinent facts as well.
‘… but he was there, so they may not listen.’
In the yard at Cougar Coaches, John Barraclough was launching Kevin’s shakedown cruise, showing him how to check for problems hidden under the bonnet of one of the coaches.
‘These oil levels are very important, Kevin. Any questions, lad?’
Kevin’s brow furrowed, ostensibly he was thinking hard, trying to make a good show with an intelligent response.
‘That Noreen. She doesn’t half give the Boss a bit of stick.’ He made a visible effort to figure it all out. ‘You’d think they were married.’
‘They are.’ Barraclough informed him, then followed with an advisory observation. ‘There’s marriages what are made in Heaven, lad; and there’s Noreen and Loach’s what are made out of barbed wire.’
Before he could elaborate, there was a roar behind them, and as they turned to look a dazzling new Porsche screeched to a stop. By now they were intrigued, and sallied forth to see which wild and decadent aristocratic personage had taken a wrong turn and nearly crashed into the garage.
As the passenger door opened, a pair of polished women’s shoes and well-turned ankles were exposed, immediately succeeded by shapely calves swinging out, smooth stockinged legs that seemed to go on forever, with no outer garment yet in sight.
They were a glory to behold, and Barraclough had beheld them once before. As much could not be said for poor Kevin, whose jaw dropped.
Out of the Porsche climbed the long, lovely, endless legs – Michelle’s, Dicky Padgett’s latest ecstasy. Finally, to top it all off, Kevin dropped his toolbox with a clatter. The lad was unhinged.
When Michelle made her appearance at the door of the office, she gave Mr Loach and the book-keeper what Dicky referred to as her ‘devastating smile’.
Loach was devastated. Noreen favoured him with a calculating stare.
‘Uh … this is Michelle,’ he quickly improvised. ‘Michelle … this is Noreen. She’s the one you’ve to talk to.’ There – it was out.
‘Talk to me about what?’ Noreen snapped. She faced the intruder with a harder smile. ‘I’m his wife.’
‘Michelle completely slipped my mind …’
Her smile softened for her husband, and she knew he would understand. ‘Michelle slipped your mind?’ She was careful not to allow any hint of glee in her eyes. ‘Come on, Loach …’
Loach was flustered and flushed, and resented her outmanoeuvring him before he could begin to explain. ‘Listen to me. Dicky wanted to sign up Michelle for the Stratford tour. You know – the one we’ve got booked in for the end of the week.’ He didn’t dare tell her yet that Michelle was also here to ask for an advance.
Unpredictable, Noreen had a glint of danger in her eyes as she turned her own devastating smile on Michelle. ‘Let’s try and establish something, shall we, Michelle?’
‘Sure,’ Michelle aped her smile with cheerful enthusiasm.
Noreen spoke to her slowly and carefully, as if to a child. ‘Have you ever been to Stratford?’
‘No,’ Michelle answered blithely, guilelessly, completely unaware of the freight train now headed straight down the track where she was standing.
‘Well …’ Noreen began, closing in for the kill, ‘when you do a courier job, Michelle, it’s vital that you can answer any question that a tourist on the coach may ask.’
‘Sure. I know that,’ chirped Michelle, glad to be tossed an easy one.
‘For instance …’ Noreen suggested – plainly divulging to anyone with even the slightest sensitivity that she was setting a trap, ‘what do you know about Shakespeare?’
At last there was a spark of recognition behind Michelle’s empty eyes, and she nodded vigorously.
‘You mean the wine bar up on the Marlow Road.’
Even Noreen was taken aback. ‘What?’
Michelle was unfazed, finally finding herself in familiar territory.
‘The William Shakespeare,’ she expounded. ‘You don’t want to go there. He’s got hands like an octopus, the owner. They’re