INSTOW WAS A pretty village, but apart from the beach there wasn’t much to see or do. It had no amusement arcades or fairground, or shops selling tat, or pedalos for hire. Instow was smarter than that – it had Paul’s Deli, a couple of small galleries, the Commodore Hotel and three or four upmarket bistros painted fashionably dark grey or maroon.
It was nice.
But it was dull.
Which is why, when the council caved in to Donald Moon’s campaign of harassment and sent a truck to tow away the illegally parked yellow Ford Capri, the operation drew the kind of crowd more usually seen under a man threatening to jump off a bridge.
Old ladies got the plum seats. They squeezed on to the benches in beige quartets, armed with their 99 ice creams and plastic rain scarves and with tissues up their sleeves, ready for dabbing.
Then came the dog-walkers – with their wet, sandy charges panting on leashes – and mothers with buggies. And once the dog-walkers and the mums had stopped to stare, it seemed the whole village got wind of something happening on the sea front, and by the time the tow-truck driver had hitched up the Capri and was ready to start winching, there must have been a hundred people waiting patiently to be mildly entertained.
The truck driver’s name was Andy Shapland and he enjoyed the audience, especially the small boys, who he could see were truly impressed by his retaining straps and his road cones and his big hook – rather than the idle bystanders who simply had nothing better to do on a rainy Wednesday afternoon.
Shapland took care with the Capri. His father had had one, although not so well cared for, even in 1976. Luckily the doors were unlocked, so he hadn’t had to break a window to release the handbrake. Now he lined the wheels up with the ramps, put on the steering-wheel lock, and pressed the big red button on the remote, which started the winch.
Slowly the car’s nose started to rise on to the low-loader, and the small boys burst into a smattering of spontaneous applause. Andy Shapland grinned and took a little bow, and they clapped harder.
Distracted by uncommon glory, he didn’t notice that the Capri was heading for disaster. It was a low-slung car, even when new, but this one had been restored and repainted and lowered again. Not a lot. Not so you’d notice unless you were used to seeing Ford Capris every day – which, of course, nobody was any more. But it had low-profile tyres on it, and shorter shocks, and – most damning of all – it had a big fat exhaust system with far fewer inches of ground clearance than was really prudent.
At maximum tilt – just as the Capri was almost home and dry – the big fat exhaust hit the ground hard. The nasty metallic scraping noise drew an ‘Oh!’ from the idle bystanders and then a ripple of laughter, as the boot clicked open in response to the jolt, like a sleeper opening half an eye to see what all the fuss was.
Shit. Andy Shapland hit the big red button to stop the winch.
He could see from where he was standing that he’d broken the exhaust. He’d done that once before with a Lotus and the owner had had a meltdown on the A361, but, to be honest, cocking it up on an old Capri in front of a crowd was much more embarrassing. From the corner of his eye he saw the small boys looking disappointed. And if he knew small boys, it would only be another few seconds before their childish disappointment turned into shouts of derision. Especially as the boot popping open had lent the whole thing a comedy air.
He walked over quickly to slam the lid shut, then stopped, staring down into the black-lined interior of the Capri.
Then he said, ‘Shit!’ and ‘Call the police!’
‘What?’ said an old lady on the nearest bench.
‘Call the police!’ shouted Andy Shapland in a panic. ‘Call the police!’
Several people laughed, thinking it was part of the show.
‘Call the police!’ He’d do it himself. He could do it himself. He suddenly realized that he could call the police. Andy Shapland’s fingers felt numb. His head felt numb. He put the phone to his ear and it was only when everybody laughed again that he realized he was trying to call the police on the remote for the winch, speaking into the big red button.
‘There’s a body in the boot!’ he shouted. ‘There’s a body in the boot!’
A thin man with two Border collies on leads stepped off the pavement and peered into the boot and confirmed that that was true.
Lots of people called the police then, and the police came and made all the old ladies and the mums and the dog-walkers and the small boys stand far enough away so that nobody else could see anything interesting.
Killjoys.
Conveniently, there was a driver’s licence in the body’s wallet, and it didn’t take Sherlock Holmes to match the photo of a stout middle-aged man with fluffy grey mutton-chop sideburns to the swollen, stinking body in the boot of his own Ford Capri.
His name was Leonard Willows.
Also known as Pussy.
When the Gunslingers heard about Pussy Willows they tried to be sorry, but it didn’t work. Their only fond memory of him had been the fight that had got them banned from the George, and that was no basis for false regret.
Within minutes of meeting that Friday, they were deep in drink and speculation about who’d killed him.
‘Ex-wife,’ said Blacky. ‘Sure to be.’
‘Was he married?’ said Shiny.
‘If he was married,’ said Blacky.
‘Police haven’t said it was murder yet,’ said Whippy, who was always the most cautious.
‘Bollocks,’ said Scratch, flicking his poncho over one shoulder so it didn’t dip in his cider. ‘Didn’t kill himself and hide himself in the boot, did he?’
The Gunslingers nodded firmly at that. The police hadn’t even officially identified Pussy yet, but Scratch’s wife’s uncle had a boat moored at Instow and so had all the inside information, and there’d been a photo of the car in the Gazette.
‘What was that name he wanted?’ said Hick.
‘What name?’
‘The one we wouldn’t let him have.’
‘Dunno. Oi, Shiny! What was that name he wanted?’
‘Deadly, I think,’ said Shiny. ‘No, not Deadly, Deadeye. That’s it.’
‘Well, he’s got two of ’em now!’ shouted Nellie, and they all laughed.
Daisy Yeo mooed for another beer from the bar, and when it arrived he raised his glass and said, ‘To Pussy Willows. Couldn’t have happened to a better man.’
They all laughed and sipped their drinks.
Then Hick frowned and said, ‘I hope we’re not suspects.’
They smiled a little bit, but then realized he was being serious.
‘Why would we be suspects?’ said Razor.
Shiny rolled his eyes and said, ‘ ’Cos of the fight, innit? It’s not like it was private! Everyone round here knows about it. And Pussy bore a grudge, you know. Remember that time Razor seen him in the Blue Dolphin? Cut him dead.’
‘Cut me dead,’ agreed Razor. ‘I said, “Right, Pussy?” and he wouldn’t even look at me.’
‘Still,’ said Whippy, ‘it’s a motive, innit?’
‘But he started it,’ said Chip.
‘And we finished it!’ said Blacky, to cheers all round.
‘And that’s the truth,’ nodded Shiny, ‘if Mr Plod comes knocking.’
‘Who’s Mr Plod?’ said Razor.
‘The police!’ said Shiny. ‘Don’t you read?’
The Gunslingers had the best meeting they’d had for an awfully long while. They laughed and sang along to a new Lyle Lovett on the jukebox, and Jim Maxwell let them buy a final round a whole ten minutes after he’d rung the big brass bell behind the bar.
And the cherry on the cake was that when they got out to the car park at the end of the night, not one of their cars had been vandalized.
‘No Pussy Willows, nobody fucking with our cars,’ said Hick Trick. ‘Says it all, dunnit?’ – and they all agreed that it did, indeed, say it all.