Ch 7

In the course of our conversation, imtermittently interrupted by miscellaneous bods on their way home from work, I learned some more about Kate Wills.

Her husband was a city type who spent most of his time travelling between London and New York. Rarely seen about the place, most locals reckoned the two had come to a mutual agreement some time ago.

“The only bloke about the place now is Max the butler,” confided Marina. “Does the shopping, pays the bills .. and God help anyone who decides to break into that house with him about.”

My mind boggled. The aproned minion, a bodyguard?

“You take it from me pal,” announced Marina. “Thon Max would pull the head clean aff yer shoulders. Nae bother.”

She strode to the door and flicked her cigarette into the gutter.

“I had three wee hard men in here a couple o’ months ago. Acting the maggot. All bling and baseball caps and white tracksuits. Scumbags. They were givin’ us a hard time.

“When the Max boy came in, the leader o’ the pack decided to make fun o’ him. Max took him out with a punch to the throat. Never said a word. Just stared at the other two. They picked their mate up and f..ked off sharpish.

“Max picked up his papers, said thanks and walked out calm as ye like. Jesus, he hit thon scrote like thon kung fu guy …. Aye, Steven Seagal.”

Fair enough, I could have told Marina that Seagal was an aikido man, but a punch in the throat is a punch in the throat. It has a remarkable effect on most people.

“So if you’re thinking of trying tae work your way in there, think again,” smiled Marina. “Max would break both your legs and set you at the front gate in the wheelie bin.”

I grimaced: “Thanks doll, I’ll bear that in mind.”

Having gathered the goss on Mrs. Wills, I knew my next port of call would be the local studies library. I had some research to do on that Mill which had so remarkably ‘come into the family.’

Firstly, I called into the house for my trusty digital camera – remember the days before digital? All that crap about the magic of photography? You ask any of the pros who work the wedding circuit, they’ll tell you digital is heaven and half the price. Not that you’d know it from the prices they still charge the happy couples.

Anyway, Thursday evening always sees Terry Reeves behind the counter down the library.

“Awright Tel?” I inquired in my best mockney accent.

“I’m awright, you awright?” replied Terry. He used to be a big fan of that Michael Barrymore bloke. Still hasn’t forgotten the catchphrase even if he doesn’t reckon much on old Mike anymore.

Terry Reeves likes the evenings. He doesn’t get mucked about by armies of fourth formers armed with clipboards and 3G phones, unlike his compatriots in the Local Studies who suffer the indignity of having some spotty fourteen year old describe their lifetime employment as ‘boring.’

As a result, Terry gets to know his serious ‘customers’.

“What is tonight then Des?” he asked brightly. “Somme… Wipers?”

I smiled but inwardly I winced. If only Terry knew how difficult it is get your tongue around that seemingly simple sound. And how the old sweats sniggered contemptuously when latercomers to the war tried to adopt their slang name for the ancient Belgian town.

“Not this time Tel,” I informed him.

“I’m here to pick your brains. Your very favourite subject me old son … the industrial heritage of Mudcaster from late Victorian times to the dawn of the 21st century.”

Terry eyed me suspiciously: “You taking the proverbial?”

Most certainly not, I assured him. For if there was one man in Mudcaster who knew all the dirty details of Mudcaster’s mills and forges, it was Terry Reeves.