They were in his office, Alan was smoking his third Castella of the day and Tony was pacing. That was it. ‘Tony, you’re wearing out the carpet.’ Tony barely changed the tempo of his pacing. ‘My mother wants to get rid of the chicken hutch.’ Alan Taylor burst out laughing. ‘Is that why you’re pacing up and down like an expectant dad in a maternity ward? Don’t look so worried, Tony. She’ll have to get rid of the chickens first.’ He slapped Tony on the back. Tony stopped pacing. His expression was grim when he looked at Alan. ‘She’s already got rid of them. Screwed their necks.’ Alan’s humour departed. He pulled a face. ‘Your mother’s a tougher old bird than the chickens, I reckon.’ Tony resumed pacing the floor of Alan Taylor’s office. Alan had the best new and used car dealership on Sheppey. Cars, premises and salesmen were all well presented. Even the mechanics with their oily black hands and greasy faces were expected to change their overalls once a week.
