Scandal at Six(71)

It had all been so stupid, Justin thought regretfully. Pettison had been ever present in his life, calling in to see his father frequently. There had been a kind of family conspiracy to keep quiet about the endangered animal trade, and for years before he went away to school he had believed that he and his father were actively helping Uncle Robert to do something worthwhile with his breeding programmes. He supposed his parents had assumed that the truth, that his father was colluding with Pettison’s illegal trade in rare species, had dawned on him gradually, and they never mentioned it. And he never mentioned it! Good God, how ridiculous! And now, he thought, Mum will continue not to mention it, and so shall I. And if my dream of establishing the zoo comes true, post-Pettison, as legal, with no sidelines, it will be the best in the land.

“All ready for the off, Mum,” he said, entering the kitchen for a last snack before he set off in the Fiat. “Are you sure you’re going to be all right? I could stay another day or so.”

“No need, dear. I’m going to Vera’s first thing tomorrow. I’ll ring you to make sure you get back safely.”

“Fine. Now, is there anything else?”

“No, unless you’ve got any animals out there in the barn? Don’t forget them; otherwise, they’ll starve!”

Wow! What an opening! “Nothing there now, Mum,” he said. “I took the last lot away. What did you think of them? Did they appeal to you as pets? We’ve had lots of them over the years, haven’t we?”

And then Mum didn’t answer, and he had said nothing more, recalled Justin, as he sped through the fens. At last, trees and hedges began to appear and he was ashamed to feel a sense of relief at being away from it all. All the questions he could have asked about the early times of his father and Pettison, all had gone unsaid.

But he could not leave it there. Things had changed, and he intended as a priority to thrash out the exact nature of the link with Pettison. He was sure his father would never have agreed willingly to anything illegal. There must have been some pressure involved. From the beginning. And from his own point of view, he wanted no “from generation unto generation” rubbish from Uncle Robert! Above all, when, as was likely, the trade was uncovered by the police, he wished to make sure his father’s name was cleared.

When he reached Farnden, it was six o’clock and dark. The bright overhead light outside the shop lit up his entry to the back of the building, and he coasted in, shutting off his headlights so as not to announce his arrival. He had no appetite for conventional sympathies, and hoped he could creep in and up to the flat without anyone knowing. He saw a light on in the stockroom, and cursed. Josie must be sorting things out in there. But she did not appear, and he shut and locked the flat door with relief. Then he thought of the animals. Oh well, they’d probably been fed this evening. “I’ll look at them tomorrow,” he muttered, and collapsed on the sofa, where he fell immediately into a dreamless sleep.



*



Next morning, Justin awoke with a painful neck where he had been lying cramped up on the sofa, still in his clothes. He looked at his watch. It was half past nine, and he would have barely enough time to shower, and put on his good suit, and speed into Tresham in time for a meeting with the solicitor who was helping with his father’s affairs.

He was on the road, clean and fresh, when he remembered the shrews. “Damn!” he said aloud, and slowed down. Should he go back and feed them? But no, Josie would have realised what had happened, and looked after them. He quickened up, and arrived outside the solicitors’ offices on the dot of half past ten.

The loose ends of his father’s financial affairs were soon tied up, and when he went out to the Fiat, he noticed the petrol gauge was low, but not alarmingly so, and he decided to risk it.

He was beginning to feel anxious now, with a vague suspicion that something was wrong. He had waved to Josie as he left Farnden earlier, and she had not smiled in reply. Pettison had said he was to hang on to the little animals or, in an emergency, get them to Betsy Brierley, who would know what to do with them.

He put his foot on the accelerator and pushed the little car to its top speed. The straight stretch of road whizzed by, and as he slowed down to drive through Fletching, he heard the unmistakable sound of a police siren. Damn and blast!

“So sorry, officer,” he said, as the policeman came up to his open window. “Not concentrating, I’m afraid.”

“Very dangerous, sir, particularly at that speed. I’m afraid it’ll be a ticket this time. You know what to do, I expect.”

“Thank you,” replied Justin, and managed to refrain from committing himself further.