10 lb Penalty - Dick Francis [25]
I asked for, and reached, the manager, whose name was Basil Rudd. Thin, red-haired, freckled and energetic, his likeness to Usher Rudd made twins a possibility.
“Don’t ask,” he said, eyeing my newspaper. “He’s my cousin. I disown him, and if you’re out to be busy with your fists, you’ve reached the wrong man.”
“Well ... I really came to collect that Range Rover. It’s my father’s.”
“Oh?” He blinked. “I’ll need proof of identity.”
I showed him a letter of authorization signed by my parent and also my driver’s license.
“Fair enough.” He opened a drawer, picked out a labeled ring bearing two keys and held them out for me to take. “Don’t forget to switch off the alarms. I’ll send the bill to Mr. Juliard’s party headquarters. OK?”
“Yes. Thank you. Was there anything wrong?”
He shrugged. “If there was, there isn’t now.” He consulted a spiked worksheet. “Oil change. General check. That’s all.”
“Do you think I could talk to whoever did the job?”
“Whatever for?”
“Er ... I’ve got to drive my father around in that vehicle and I’ve never driven it before... and I thought I might get some tips about engine management... so I don’t overheat it by crawling along the roads canvassing door to door.”
Basil Rudd shrugged. “Ask for Terry. He did the work.”
I thanked him and sought out Terry, who gave three instant physical impressions: big, bald, belly. Brown overalls, grease-stained from his job.
He too eyed my newspaper. He spoke with venom in a powerful Dorset voice.
“Don’t mention Bobby bloody Rudd ’round here.”
I hadn’t been going to, but I said, “Why not?”
“He’ll listen to you and your missus in bed with one of them window-vibrating bugging contraptions and before you know it, never mind the sex, he’ll be printing what you said about the boss having his hand up a customer’s skirt when she brings her car in for the twentieth time to be overhauled, though there’s bugger all wrong with it in the first place. Got me sacked, Bobby did.”
“But,” I suggested, “you’re still here.”
“Yeah, see, Basil took me on because he loathes Bobby, who’s his cousin, see. It was over in Quindle I got sacked by Bobby’s dad, that’s Basil’s uncle, drunk half the time ...” He broke off. “If it’s not to complain about Bobby Usher bleeding Rudd, what is it you want, lad?”
“I ... er... you serviced my father’s Range Rover. What was wrong with it?”
“Apart from the fancy paintwork?” He scratched his shiny head. “Foreign body in the oil sump. I suppose you might say that. Nothing else. I gave it a good clean-out.”
“What sort of foreign body?”
He looked at me dubiously. “I don’t rightly know.”
“Well, um ... how do you know it was there?”
He took his time in answering by starting at the beginning of his involvement. “A man in your party’s headquarters—said his name was Teck or some such—he phones Basil saying there might be something dicey about a fancy Range Rover they’d got there and to send someone over pronto to take a decko, so I went over there and this Mr. Teck gave me the keys and the Range Rover started at first touch, sweet as anything.”
I looked at him without comment.
“Yeah, well,” he said, scratching his bald head again. “This Teck guy said something about maybe someone took a potshot at your old man and to check that the Range Rover’s brakes hadn’t been mucked about with or anything, so I looked it all over and could see nothing wrong. No bombs, nothing like that, but anyway this Teck guy said to bring it here and do a thorough service, so I did.”
He stopped for effect. I said obligingly, “What did you find?”
“See, it was what I didn’t find.”
“I wish you’d explain.”
“No plug on the sump.”
“What?”
“Oil change. Routine service. I run the Range Rover over the inspection pit and I take a spanner to unscrew the sump plug to drain out the old oil, and there you are, no plug. No plug, I ask you. But there’s oil there, according to the dipstick. Normal. Full. So I run the engine a bit and the oil-pressure gauge reads normal, like it did on my way ‘round here, so there has