closed the computer down.
Maxine said, “Don’t worry, Jim. In a little while you’ll feel better.”
.
Chapter Two
England was a cold, grey, damp place. The north of England more so. It had been many years since Maxine Graff had first been to England and the country hadn’t improved with age.
The train journey had been slow, uncomfortable and impersonal. But on the plus side the hire car waiting for her at the other end was clean, well maintained and well made. It was her first trip to the North of England. If she could have her own way in life, it would be her last. The North just looked like a colder, more bleak version of the South.
Then there was Templecaneston itself.
She’d studied the publicity, from the internet mostly. Which was the same glossy tourist stuff she’d seen for any number of towns and cities around the world. Templecaneston boasted museums and galleries. Restaurants, clubs, pubs and everything that made the modern tourist experience worth the effort. It was all a bit desperate and suggestive of attempting to make something exciting from that which was, at the very best, dull and tedious beyond belief. Why would anyone travel to a colder, wetter, less sophisticated town than London in order to enjoy less of the facilities that existed in the capital city. Maxine began to wonder if the money she’d been paid was enough.
So here she was, in Caneston in a rented car, driving around the wrong side of the tracks, literally, having just passed under a railway bridge. She negotiated a small maze of streets, relying on the sat-nav more than she was comfortable with.
However, the machine guided her to her destination with little trouble.
A mid-sized garage on the corner. By the look of things it had once been painted blue. Today there were small flecks of paint here and there to show that. But it was, mostly, bare, rusting metal. A sign that went back who knew how long gave her the name K.D. Stephenson. None of which meant anything to her beyond what had been in the information given by Maybrick, or Naomi Drake to be exact.
Maxine parked up her hire car, a pale blue Freelander, which seemed a popular choice out here, no doubt due to the surrounding hills and countryside. She carefully stepped out and looked around.
She was casually dressed. Jeans, a cream coloured sweater and blue padded body warmer. Temple Caneston, famous for its museums and art gallery, didn’t have a climate to be proud of. The sky was a uniform grey and looked like it might turn to rain once it had stopped the seemingly constant drizzle.
The main door was securely chained and padlocked to a solid looking bar embedded in the weed covered concrete. The bar looked newer and more solid than the rest. Beside it was a smaller door. Maxine hammered a gloved hand on this. There was no bell or knocker. Her small fist made a muffled thump on the metal door. If there was a security camera watching her Maxine couldn’t see it. She doubted if one was concealed. There didn’t seem much point. Someone had spray painted Polski go home in white on the wall nearby. The North was such a welcoming place and its people were the salt of the Earth.
Nothing happened. She considered hammering again, but changed her mind and went right in. On the other hand everything outside was so exactly what someone might expect of a run down area like this that it was like walking onto a movie set. Maxine couldn’t quite shake the feeling that the exterior had been very carefully and deliberately designed to look run down.
Inside was a workshop. A car stood over an inspection pit and the place reeked of oil. Tools were scattered over a nearby metal workbench and nothing looked either tidy or clean. More window dressing? Maxine wasn’t sure. She was also not entirely certain that she cared. None of this was her benefit, but would probably fool the local police if they were very stupid. Most likely they were very stupid. She hadn’t been in the country very long but she hadn’t encountered anyone she’d class as bright so far.
The walls were liberally covered with various signs, though few of them in any state to be clearly read. Many seemed to be notices relating to health and safety. The only thing on the wall that looked clean and clear was the calendar. Though clean wasn’t exactly the word for it.
“You need any help, Blondie?” A large man emerged from behind the car. He was taller than Maxine, which wasn’t too difficult. She was only one fifty six centimeters without her shoes. Though he was massively fatter. A huge gut hung out of open fronted overalls. They had once been blue but now were badly stained with oil and grease. The man was a walking fire hazard. His long, lank, dark hair and beard were far from clean also. Ingrained dirt covered his big, meaty hands. He rubbed them on his overalls, which seemed a singularly useless thing to do. They were now, slightly, dirties than they had been a moment before.
“I’m looking for the owner.” She looked around, the place suited the man. One match and everything would go up. “Are you Mr Stephenson?” She had worked on her English accent. Now she sounded English, if rather too well educated.
“I’m the owner.” The Mechanic said, “But Mr Stephenson hasn’t been around for the past fifty years or so.” He grinned at her with bad teeth. “What are you after, Blondie?” He didn’t offer a name and Maxine wasn’t interested or curious enough to want one. It wouldn’t be his real name anyway.
“James Maybrick sent me.” She said. The truth was needed here and she didn’t have any fears about mentioning Maybrick by name. The onus was on the big man. Maybrick should have told him she was coming. Actually Naomi should have told him, which did worry Maxine slightly. She didn’t trust the black woman at all.
“Did he now?” The Mechanic picked up an oily rag from the workbench and wiped his hands. Which, so far as Maxine could see, just made them even more dirty. He should have stuck with wiping them on his overalls. Everything here was filthy “You sure of that, Blondie? Because I’m not.”
Maxine sighed, “In that case….cram it up your arse.” She shook her head. The English sense of humour. You had to experience it to truly realise it didn’t exist.
“You don’t say that right, Blondie.” The Mechanic said, still grinning, “But you’ll do. Maybrick’s nigger told you to say that, right.”
Maxine ignored the racist comment about Naomi Drake. She didn’t care how offensive he was to or about the woman. “How do I know you’re the man I came here to meet?” That didn’t make any real difference but she decided to be slightly awkward just for the Hell of it.
“Who the hell else would I be, Blondie?” He tossed the rag onto the bench and leaned back, arms folded. His sweater, beneath the overalls, was oil covered and ragged. His side should have made him look threatening but he was merely bored. He didn’t even sound annoyed.
“Then you know why I’m here.” She said. She hoped Naomi had fully briefed the man. So far she’d not been overly impressed.
“I do. But I don’t know exactly what you want. Pistols, revolvers…..rifles…..I have an Uzi. That’s neat.” He gave her a greasy smile, in every meaning of the word, “If sex was a gun it would be an Uzi.”
Maxine shook her head, “No machine pistols.” Not since the debacle in Hong Kong four years ago. “I may need a rifle.” She said. “I’ll certainly need handguns.”
“Pistols?
