Permissible Limits by Graham Hurley Read Free Book Online Page B

£250,000.
    ‘ And the rest? What’s that secured on?’
    ‘ The Mustang.’
    ‘ Does Harvey Glennister have an urge to fly Mustangs?’ Dennis laughed again, then returned my look.
    ‘ Are you serious? You want to trade?’
    ‘ No.’
    ‘ Are you sure? Only…’ He shrugged, disappointed, and for a moment I glimpsed the wheeler-dealer of Dennis Wetherall’s dreams, the fast-talking entrepreneur he might have become had accountancy not given him such rich pickings.
    ‘ The Mustang’s not on offer,’ I said quietly. ‘I’ll live in a tent before I part with it.’
    Dennis swerved to avoid a bicycle.
    ‘ At this rate,’ he said grimly, ‘you might have to.’
    Steve Liddell’s new premises were on the south side of Jersey airport, a brightly painted industrial unit that Dennis told me he’d taken on a three-year lease. There were big roll-up doors at the front, and the hardstanding outside gave direct access on to the airfield perimeter track.
    Dennis parked the Porsche on the empty tarmac and I stood beside the car for a moment or two, watching the pilot of a passing 737 lift the nosewheel and haul the aircraft into a steep climb. Adam, bless him, had been right about flying. Once the virus is in your bloodstream, it never leaves you.
    Dennis was already making for a little glassed-in porch on the side of the unit. I called for him to wait, catching him up as he pushed in through the door. Beyond the porch was a tiny reception area. Two desks formed an L shape. There was a computer on one desk and a pile of unopened mail on the other. The rubber plant in the corner needed a lot of attention.
    I joined Dennis beside the computer. The screen-saver featured little cartoon biplanes flapping from one corner to another. Each aircraft towed a banner advertising Liddell Engineering and I was still wondering how much the software must have cost when Dennis nudged the mouse, returning the screen to a draft letter. The letter was evidently fending off an anxious customer. It seemed he’d heard about the accident with the Spitfire and wanted an assurance that his own aircraft, booked for routine maintenance, would be in safe hands.
    Neither of us heard Steve come in. When I turned round, he was standing in an open doorway on the far side of the reception area. He was wearing grubby olive overalls. He had his hands on his hips and his face was in deep shadow under the peak of his Timberland cap. He was staring at the computer screen.
    Dennis, typically, wasn’t the least bit embarrassed.
    ‘ Tried to call you.’ He gestured at the unmanned mini-switchboard. ‘No reply.’
    Steve wiped his face with the back of his hand. I’d only met him a couple of times before, when Adam and I were over on business, but I was shocked by how much he seemed to have aged. He was a tall lad, broad-shouldered, well-built, with an open, cheerful manner and a readiness to help that had always impressed me. Now, though, his body seemed to sag inside the overalls. His face was grey with exhaustion and when he extended a reluctant hand in my direction, the smile was utterly lifeless.
    He gestured at the still-open door.
    ‘ Come through.’
    The hangar was empty except for an old Piper Cherokee jacked up in one corner. There was a big scorchmark on the concrete and Dennis had been right about the damage to the roof. The smell was still there too, acrid and bitter. Rubber tyres, I thought, and probably the plastic coating on the wiring looms.
    At the back of the hangar was another door. Beyond it lay the office that Steve used. It was sparsely furnished, a desk, a chair, an airways map taped to the wall, a FlyPast calendar still showing January, and two filing cabinets shrouded in polythene. On the floor beside the filing cabinets was a line of cardboard boxes stuffed with documents. A month or so after his move to these new premises, Steve had yet to unpack.
    He offered us both a cigarette. Neither of us smoked. We talked about Adam for a