Turf War – Bentley 40

 

[For back story go here: Story so far at 30 Nov 2020 and definitely this one.]

[Relevant back story also in embedded links.]

There were times when Bentley wondered if he should just get himself checked into an old people’s home and have done with it. Being an active pensioner was all very well, but recently he felt things had become a little over active. Even in the face of a pandemic he’d found himself moving virtually and a couple of times literally up and down the country, sometimes on a wild goose chase, sometimes trying to nail down what exactly was happening to him and in his life. The more he moved, the more he investigated, the less he knew, the less he was certain. Maybe he should just cash in his investments and choose the quiet life.

But then, what would be the fun in that? Sure he’d have the time to finally be able to understand why the trains had been timetabled the way they were. He might be able to assess exactly the thinking behind the entire transport network given half the chance. But, sat in a comfy chair in a comfy lounge, being waited on hand and foot by the care home staff, having his own room with everything to hand, would he truly be happy?

And even if he were, would the in-tray of his email account ever truly be empty?

With various squawks, bleeps and rings, Bentley sensed the New Year was coming with a new set of challenges, people and confusions. If Natalie wasn’t his granddaughter who was she and why had she emailed him with details of an exciting new investment scheme based somewhere in Africa? Was this a legitimate idea for his mysterious stash of cash or had her account been hacked in someway – her address taken over and sent used against him in a attempt to get him to click somewhere he shouldn’t?

More perplexing was the appearance of an email from The Railway Appreciation of Society of Clackton on Sea, one of Bentley’s favourite interests clubs. The RASCOS had been one of the very first train interest groups he’d been involved in - or more accurately that would have him as a member. Unfortunately they were getting in touch with him because they believed he had brought their club into disrepute. Supporting this claim were several pictures taken from CCTV cameras in York station, neatly dated and timed and presented alongside some telling descriptions of what exactly people were allowed to do and not to do at that particular time of the year. Another series of pictures also showed Bentley outside the National Railway Museum, apparently trying to gain access.

Almost next up in his in-tray was an email which Bentley very nearly didn’t open. The subject line read “Still The King”. Having ensured all his security checks were watertight, Bentley did open it. Instead of text there was a series of pictures, each one an empty golfing hole in close up. Bentley's mouth went dry as he continued to look at these images, and then he involuntarily whispered what was coursing through his mind: “The King of Holes...”

Fred Thimble was on his case for sure, but Bentley reckoned he had the upper hand on Thimble and wasn’t that worried. Jeremy Knowles, the King of Holes could be a different matter. There was money laundering going on for sure, and he was involved with Jaggers, Aston and the ring. With Jaggers gone Bentley slowly realised that first there could be no one left to keep Knowles in check and second there may be no one who would work with Knowles anymore. Knowles could be a loose cannon and the email in front of him suggested the cannon was beginning to be primed.

He got up to make a cup of tea. Lucky watched him carefully, trying to figure if Bentley was going to give her some food and if it was worth moving from her warm sofa cushion. 

Bentley’s phone squawked a message from Sheila:

– We have a pattern. When can we talk?

Bentley squawked back:

– When you like. I have a not very secret admirer.

– ???

Squawked Shiela.

Bentley sent her back an emoji of a cup of tea and a promise of a call in 5 minutes.

No, 2021 and nothing was going to be straight-forward. From the reacquaintance of old ‘friends’ to the management of new lockdowns, Bentley sensed things were only going to get more complicated. And maybe he was going to like this. There might be a turf war in the offing and if there were he’d be ready for it. Especially if the turf war included fake grass laid on weirdly shaped slabs of concrete and the occasional model windmill.

He wandered back into the living room with his cup of tea, tripped on one of the cat’s toys, steadied himself and spilled tea over the sofa, splashing Lucky across her head.