Dreams of a Hero (5 page)

They didn’t have to go as far as the café to meet their quarry. Strauss had arranged to make first contact down by the harbour, on a seat in the cool shade of a tree, where the electric buzz of cicadas played an antiphony to the sounds of children still paddling and splashing in what remained of the evening sunlight. He hadn’t seemed surprised at being rung, and if there was any disappointment that it concerned the Phillipsons rather than a secret tête-à-tête with Miles, he’d managed to hide the fact over the phone and was continuing to do so now. They sat either side of him and the questions began, Miles almost apologetic in his offers of help, his mysterious proposal being mentioned in passing but not elaborated upon.

“If you really want to know about the Phillipsons, stick around and you’ll see for yourselves. They usually drop into the café sometime during the day and they haven’t been in yet, so my money would be on today’s visit being an evening one. I could get Harry to text me when they show up in case we’re still here.” Strauss got his BlackBerry from his pocket and started to fiddle with it.

“Leaving it until we’re face-to-face might be too late. Forewarned is forearmed.” Miles looked at Roger, desperate for some moral support, even though he’d not given him any more information about the strategy he’d devised. Discretion had been the better part of valour; there was always the possibility that Roger, promises notwithstanding, would have turned the car round and headed home if he’d heard what his partner had in store.

“Do you want to tell me what this is about?” Strauss looked from one to the other.

“Miles has a plan.” Roger grinned nervously, the situation—especially the lack of a completed plot line—evidently unmanning him. “And the idiot refuses to tell anyone, me included, exactly what this plan is. Except that it involves picking your brains.”

“Pick away, for all the good it’ll do you. Although if you think you’ve come up with some crazy scheme for ridding us of the attentions of those two louts, you might have to think again.” Strauss sighed. “Don’t get the idea we’ve just been sitting around letting them ride roughshod over us.”

Miles laid his hand on the lawyer’s arm, just long enough to rile Roger but not sufficient to trigger full-scale jealousy mode. “I never doubted that for a moment. Maybe what you need is a dose of good old British underhandedness.”

“I thought you guys always played fair?” Strauss may still have been dubious about whatever was going on—this was all getting a bit mad—but he couldn’t hide the faint glimmer of hope in voice.

“That’s only in cricket,” Miles said. “If it’s rugby, we stretch the laws to absolute breaking point, and in football we ignore them entirely.”

“So is this going to turn out to be illegal? I have my reputation to consider.”

“He’s promised it won’t be. I’ve threatened him with the wrath of his mother.” Roger seemed to be enjoying that bit, if not the rest.

“Not illegal.” Miles made his best “scouts’ honour” sign. “I’ve been reconsidering it all the way here and I can’t see anything which will get us thrown in the clink. Not sure where it stands morally, though.”

“That’s fine.” Strauss shrugged. “Lawyers can do immoral. So what do you need to know?”

“That lorry driver—Lou?—said Alex Phillipson had spent some time in England. Do you know anything about it?”

“Only what Harry told me. He got a master’s degree in London. Chemical engineering. Hey, don’t look so surprised, I told you they weren’t stupid, either of them.”

“I think we assumed you meant something like natural cunning, rather than education. My middle-class preconceptions showing.” Roger smiled. “Mea culpa.”

“That’s what makes it even more annoying. I think if they were just out-and-out thugs it wouldn’t be so bad.” Strauss fixed Miles as though he was a recalcitrant witness. “Is this going to affect your great scheme?”

“On the contrary, I think it might be the thing to seal its success.” Miles beamed. “I’ll explain everything before we go into action, I swear. But first, give me everything you know about Phillipson junior’s time in London. Dates, places, names, the works.”

“Is the devil in the detail?” Strauss rubbed his hands, happier than he’d looked at any point since they’d first met.

“Oh yes. And the more of it we can get, the better it’ll be.”

The Laurel Wreath was even busier than it had been earlier, as if everyone was determined to make a metaphorical show of force, irrespective of whether they dared risk an actual one. Strauss had sent a text or two as he’d answered their questions—marshalling the troops, as he’d called it. Roger wasn’t prepared for the number of “foot soldiers” who’d rallied to the call. There didn’t seem to be a spare table in the house.

He eyed the menu with suspicion. It looked too good to be true, more Devon than Massachusetts, locally sourced food interestingly presented and with the promise of real vegetables and salad. Dear God, he was starting to pine for a bit of broccoli or a properly cooked carrot.

“It tastes as good as it reads. Would a lawyer lie?” Strauss looked over the top of his menu. “No, don’t answer that.”

“Worth risking the vegetarian Stroganoff?” Miles only seemed to have half a mind—and half an eye—on the menu.

“Can’t see why not. I’ve never tried it but if it’s up to the standard of the rest…” Strauss shrugged. “Don’t keep looking at the door. It’s still too early.” He smiled, nudging Miles’s menu with his own. “Don’t you like meat?”

“I love it. I just feel I’ve been oversteaked. If Roger will allow me to coin a word.”

“I’ll allow it, even if I don’t approve.” Roger didn’t add “rather like I don’t approve of you still not giving us the gen on your harebrained plan.” He didn’t need to elaborate—Miles’s sheepish grin showed he’d made that connection already. “Make sure you get something substantial inside you. You need to keep your strength up.”

“You sound more like my mother every day.” Miles perused the menu again. “Will fish do? It’s supposed to be good for your brains, and that’s what we need tonight, rather than brawn.”

The fish was good, as was the roast beef Roger plumped for. Strauss had what he called a small steak—which made Roger wonder whether a big one would come from a cow the size of a brachiosaur—but at least the accompaniments were admirable. A couple of glasses of decent white wine to wash it down, and he almost forgot why they were there, apart from the excellence of the cuisine.

It didn’t take much to remind him, the atmosphere in the Laurel Wreath changing almost as though a switch had been thrown, and before the street door had even opened and the reason—reasons, there being two of them—for the change becoming obvious. The two men swaggering through the door had to be the Phillipsons, given their cocky expressions and the air of belligerent unease everyone else started to exude. Even Strauss looked uncomfortable, nervously fingering his collar.

The unwelcome guests took a look around the place, clocking all the clientele with contemptuous amusement and saving a particularly nasty smile for Strauss; they must have locked horns before. Roger and Miles got barely more than a derisive sneer.

“Air in here’s more disagreeable than usual.” The older man spoke through clenched teeth. “Leave the door open, boys.” He walked towards the counter, while his son stayed in the doorway, leaning against the woodwork with his arms folded.

Roger fought the urge to laugh. Something about this pair reminded him of pantomime villains, all overstated bluster and exaggerated mannerisms. If he hadn’t been told about their very real exploits, and seen for himself the effect they had as they’d walked in, he’d have been tempted to shout, “Oh no, you won’t!”

He was about to catch his partner’s eye, to see if he’d had the same thought, but Miles was out of his seat and heading for Alex Phillipson.

The collective gasp from the patrons was followed by the sort of silence in which you could not only have heard a pin drop but listened to its journey through the air. Only Strauss seemed to appreciate what was going on, despite the fact Miles had continually refused to reveal the details of his plan, answering every question with a shake of his head and the comeback that they didn’t want to be accessories before the fact, surely?

Now Miles looked a picture of self-assurance, striding forward, hand extended and a big grin on his face. “Alex, I was hoping I’d see you here. Eddie told me to look out for you if we got to Burgh Harbor. He sends his love.” He offered his hand for the younger Phillipson to shake, getting only a mystified look in return.

Alex stopped leaning on the doorframe. “Do I know you?” His voice seemed naturally aggressive, as if it was never without an edgy note.

“You’ve forgotten so soon?” Miles looked crestfallen. “Still, I suppose there’s a lot of water flows under the bridge in two years, and you were always Eddie’s mate more than mine.” He put out his hand again. “Miles. We used to drink at the Richmond Arms. Only don’t tell yer man—” he jerked his head towards Roger, “—because he didn’t know me back then. I’ve calmed down a lot.”

“Look, I don’t know what you’re getting at…” Alex ignored Miles’s hand. “I don’t think we’ve ever met. You’ve mixed me up with one of your faggot friends.”

The atmosphere chilled another five degrees at his use of the word, although Miles seemed oblivious to it all. Old man Phillipson just stood, looking as bewildered as his son.

“Still the joker, Alex. You crack me up.” Miles stepped back, turning so he could address his partner but still keep one eye on his quarry. “I told you, Roger, this guy’s so deadpan. Used to have us all in fits.” He turned back, for all the world as if he was making small talk at a party, not defusing an unexploded bomb of a situation. “Let me get you a drink for old time’s sake. The beer’s not real ale but I hear they rustle up a good pot of tea here—or have you gone back to coffee?”

“I have no idea what you’re talking about.” Alex’s fists were clenching and unclenching, drumming a tattoo on his thighs, but his voice sounded unsure, as if the tide of bullishness had turned to the ebb. “You’ve got the wrong guy, buddy.”

Miles suddenly looked serious. “Hey, that’s all right, I understand if you want to forget about Eddie. I don’t know what happened between the two of you, and I don’t want to know. He always said one day you’d end up leaving him for a catalytic cracker. You can take the engineer out of the refinery but not the refinery out of the engineer.”

That barb had struck home. Roger felt like a member of a privileged audience, watching a skilful improviser go through his paces. Every pair of eyes in the place was on Miles, a sense of awe in the air at the man’s sheer brass neck. Who’d have thought the old trout had it in him?

“Alex, what the hell’s going on?” Old man Phillipson laid a large, muscular hand on his son’s arm. “Who are these guys?”

“Damned if I know. Never seen them before, except for the lawyer sitting at their table. He must have dragged some more of his faggot friends over from England. As if we haven’t got enough home grown to deal with already.”

“I remember you running that ‘What the fuck’s going on?’ joke back in London, that boat trip we all took.” Miles shook his head, smiling. “I thought we were going to end up in a fight with those two bleeding-heart liberals. Took Eddie a long time to persuade them you were just kidding.” He sighed. “Eddie misses you like crazy, you know. He said if I saw you I had to ask you to write. You’ve sent just the one reply in all this time and he wants to know what’s changed. I said it was obvious—you must have found another bloke.”

Old man Phillipson’s jaw started working, but no sound came out. Alex looked like he’d lost the power of speech completely, but Miles carried on, to all appearances unaware of any stir he might be causing.

“My name’s Miles Storrie.” He put out his hand for the father to shake, even though the son had refused to do so. “I used to hang around with Alex’s crowd when he was over in London doing his master’s. We’ve got a mutual friend, Eddie, only he’s my
friend
and Alex’s…what did the pair of you call yourselves back then? Significant otters?” Miles took his hand away unshaken, the eloquence of the gesture clearly stating that he was still a gentleman, even if other people weren’t. “Alex always had a way with words. We all miss him, not just Eddie.”

Old man Phillipson now looked as if he was about to have a coronary, while his son was still gaping like a fish, soundless. A couple of the diners hid their faces behind menus, whether to hide laughter or fear, Roger couldn’t tell, being too stunned at his partner’s unexpected acting skills. The monologue continued.

“Shame it had to end, but long-distance romances never quite cut it, do they? I kept telling Eddie that, but you know him, never one to listen. So, did you meet the new bloke in here?” Miles suddenly put his hand over his mouth, looking from father to son and back again. “Oh hell, sorry. That’s me all over, classic case of foot-in-mouth disease. I’ve screwed up, haven’t I? I’m
so
sorry.”

“You better have a good explanation for this.” Phillipson leaned towards Miles, then turned and fixed his son with a stare. “And you too. I don’t know what went on in London or what’s going on now but I sure as hell don’t like it.”

“Nothing went on in London.” Alex had found his voice again, although it sounded reedy and unsteady. “Nothing’s going on now but a lot of bullshit.”

“I think I need to apologise again, to both of you.” Miles addressed the son first. “I’ve made a bit of a tit of myself, haven’t I? Just thought you were out here as well as back in England. Roger always says I shouldn’t assume things.” He turned to the father. “It’s not what you’d have wanted to hear or the way you’d have wanted to hear it, so blame me and my big gob.”

“Now look here…” Alex grabbed Miles’s arm, twisting it back. Roger was halfway out of his seat but Strauss held him back. There was no need to act just yet.

“Easy, son.” Old man Phillipson’s strong hand restrained his son’s from any further violence. “Seems like you and me have a bit of talking to do. About exactly what did go on when you were in England.”

“Nothing went on.” Alex shook himself free. “How many times do I have to tell you?”