“You’re puzzling over something, Ralph,” Cynthia remarked.
“It’s those two that found the gold at Sherracombe. Like Franks said, they must have known all about treasure trove and the law about what happens when three or four million is found on someone’s land. I’m just wondering if they turned it all in. It would be awfully tempting to keep some for yourself. On the other hand, if they knew the law, then handing it in would be sensible since they’d each get a third without breaking the law, and English Heritage or the Exmoor authorities would get the rest. I suppose that at the end of the day it all depends on character.”
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Chapter 7
Joe Minton had spoken on the phone to Bruce, who assured him that everything had gone to plan. Bruce confirmed that the consignment, as he called it, had been shipped on to its final destination and that he was on his way back to Sydney to sell the truck and fly home. Joe joked with his friend and told him to enjoy the sun as it was ‘pissing it down’ in glorious Devon.
Joe sat in his tiny office and wrote out a few bills and checked the two orders that he had made. One was for a new radiator and the other was for some special part that he needed for an MG Sports. His mind was not on the paperwork as it was the part of his work that he disliked. Well at least Bruce had done what was expected of him. ‘So far so good’, he muttered. As long as he keeps his nerve and doesn’t meet one of his old friends and gossip we’ll be alright. Bruce was a good friend, he thought, giving a grin, but he lacked focus. If things started to go wrong and he began to panic, from there on in it was likely to snowball downhill. The thought of it snowing in Australia made him laugh out loud.
Joe spent the day working on a vintage Bentley, happy in the knowledge that he would soon be getting a call telling him where he could start collecting his money. As he reached for a spanner he heard his office phone ring. He climbed out of the inspection pit and ran over and picked it up. Normally he would have just cursed and let it ring. People who had expensive motors that needed his services either came down in person or got their drivers to come and explain what their boss wanted. He had resolved not to take in any local work from the surrounding villages; locals didn’t have the ready money, and he couldn’t stand people who dithered. He thought it might be Bruce with some problem or hold-up. He had been amazed at how well his friend had done so far, but he knew that one little thing going wrong could wreck everything.
“Bruce?”
“Tha’ Joe Minen?”
“Joe Minton. Yes?”
“You don’ know me. Jus’ lissen.”
Joe thought at first that it was a local village lad playing a prank. He had chased a bunch of them off the previous week for sitting in the cars he had at the back of his garage waiting to be worked on. The voice went on.
“It’s fer yer own good.”
“Who’s that? If this is one of you kids with your pranks, I’ll call the police.” He shouted into the mouthpiece.
“I said jus’ lissen.” The voice was now harsh and demanding.
He sat down; he noticed that his hand was trembling. He reached instinctively for his tea mug but it was cold and empty. The anonymous caller went on to say that he knew that Joe and Bruce had not handed in all the Sherracombe Treasure. He demanded 2,000 pounds or he would go to the police. Joe froze. It was a nightmare that he had not up until then contemplated.
“Who is this? You’re crazy.” He hoped that whoever it was would be scared off if he shouted loud enough. They would soon see that he was not easily intimidated.
“The Bell a’ Brayford; Saturd’y noight. No police or you’re done fer.” The voice fairly gloated down the line. He had a bitter taste in his mouth that he got sometimes if he began work too soon after breakfast and felt as though he was going to be sick.
“I haven’t got that kind of money. You need to come here so we can talk.”
It had dawned on him that if he could get the caller to come to the garage, they would be on equal terms. If it came to it, he was prepared to beat the daylights out of the bugger. He prided himself on being good in a brawl.
“The Bell. Saturd’y. A woman’ll come to the garige in a mornin’. Give ‘er 500; an’ no tricks, mind, so I’ll know yer playin’ ball.” There was a hideous cackle and the caller rang off and all Joe heard coming down the wire was a continuous hum.
He put the phone down and made his way to the small room at the back where he cooked and ate his meals. He had got into the habit of buying a pizza down at the corner restaurant, or sometimes he went down to Lynmouth for fish and chips when he wanted a bit of company. Going to the pub on his own had not been a success. Most of the locals had known each other for years, and as a relative newcomer to the area, he was seen as an outsider. Buying the garage had helped. One or two families with teenagers who had left school and were looking for work had come to him and asked if he could take them on. He had come up the hard way himself. He had been an apprentice motor mechanic when he left school. He found the new generation of kids lazy, always looking for an excuse to either go home early or not willing to take a few risks. Those whom
