by Graham Hamer
“Tweedle?” Sean muttered to himself. “I think it's time to call in the office and see about this Mister bloody Tweedle.”
THURSDAY 11 DECEMBER
“Don't look now,” Denise said, “but I do believe that's old Mrs Qualtrough three rows ahead.”
As discreetly as a naked policeman on traffic duty, Pete raised himself from the seat to look. “Think you're right,” he said, retaking his place. “Wonder where she's off to.”
“Same as us - London.”
“I know, you daft bat, I hardly thought the 'plane was going to split in two and take her somewhere different. I just wondered where she was going after that.”
“No idea. Why don't you ask her when we land?”
“You're joking, aren't you? We'll never get away. She does nothing but ask questions - most of them silly.”
“Know what you mean,” Denise said, smiling. “She's not a bad old dear but, when she used to come to clean the house, she was forever asking me if I was alright— was I content— had I met any nice young men.”
“What did you say when she asked you that one?”
“Told her 'No'.”
Pete reached between the seats and nipped her bottom. “Cheeky cow.”
The early morning sun cast moving shadows on the wing as the plane turned to make its final approach over the wide Thames estuary, into London City Airport.
“Ten minutes late,” Denise said, looking at her watch. “Will we make it to the station in time?”
“No problem. Claire's expecting us to be in Gare du Nord at six-thirty this evening, and we'll be there. I've no intention of missing Dad's surprise birthday party.”
She squeezed his hand.
It was windy and cold as they stepped out of the plane onto the concrete, and they hurried into the terminal to reclaim their luggage. As the carousel started, Denise felt a tap on her shoulder. “Oh hello, Mrs Qualtrough,” she said, as she turned in response.
“Hello, my dear. How are you?” Aunt Kate said, beaming at the young couple.
“Fine thank you.”
“I can see that.”
“Off on holiday are you?” Pete asked.
“Just a few days away. But I'm afraid I shall miss the train to Heathrow if my suitcase doesn't arrive soon. Oh look, here it is now. I shall have to go; I've got something important to do.”
Denise looked at Pete, who lifted Dave's aunt's suitcase off the carousel and then coughed into his hand to hide his smile. “Safe journey,” Denise called as Kate Qualtrough strode away.
“And here's our case,” Pete said. “We'd better get moving coz we've got something important to do.”
“Numpty!”
* * *
Nancy closed the gate behind her and stepped across the tram tracks. She knew that William would be waiting in the house, praying that she would change her mind. But it was too late. It had been too late when he'd told her that he'd given Pete the envelope to give to his father. She knew then that it was over.
After that, she couldn't bear to even look at him. Staying in the same house was unthinkable. How could he be so stupid? Couldn't he see that the old man's letter would destroy him? And her too if she stayed with him. And so it was finished. It had been good once, until Jack Tweedle's act of retribution had set the ball rolling. What would Ian say when he read the letter? Would he be furious or just plain savage?
As she crossed the road towards the tram station she resisted the urge to look back. She would be visible again now from the high bedroom windows where she had left William shaking and frightened, realising for the first time the full implications of his actions. She unlocked the Mini and climbed into the driver's seat. Where now? Pete and Denise were already in Paris, so she couldn't stay at their place. Maybe a small guest house for a few days while she puzzled out her future.
She took one last glance at the house and turned the ignition key. William would soon get over it. He would have more important things to think about once Ian got Jack Tweedle's letter.
* * *
“I've no idea where your father is,” Claire said, as she came out of the bedroom. “He didn't mention anything about going out.”
“Could he have popped out to get something?” Denise asked.
She frowned. “No. He has no idea you were coming, and anyway we've got everything here. I even went out earlier and bought a bottle of Bacardi.”
“Good speech,” Pete said, with a wide grin. “I'll have a double.”
“Well dump your case in that bedroom and get you stuff sorted out, then you can fix us all a drink. The bottles are in the cupboard over there.” She spotted the flashing light on the base of the telephone, reached across and pressed the 'Ecoute Message' button.
CLICK —
“Uhhg — Ian? — I hate these damn things — er — it's Sean here — Sure an' I suppose you probably guessed that from the voice — er — just called to say that Tweedle and Scott are both dead ex-villains - it seems like they fell out and — well — the police are trying to sort it out at the moment — They robbed me blind, the bastards — and I'm trying to put the Company back together. I could do with your help — any chance of working for me again? — er — in Paris, that is — or here if you want — Anyway, give me a call and let's talk about it. I'll tell you a story about a barracuda that you'll never believe — see you, miboy — take care.
—.CLICK
“Jesus Almighty!” Claire said.
Pete and Denise rushed out from the bedroom together. “What's the matter?”
They were in time to hear Sean's voice as Claire hit the replay button. She sat with a smile on her face, saying nothing, aware that Pete and Denise were listening, open-mouthed, to the message.
“Bloody hell!” Pete said, as the recorder rewound. “That'll please Dad.”
“I think that's not the only thing that's going to please you father this evening,” Claire said, looking up. “When's the baby due?”
“How did you know?” Pete asked.
“You're about three months pregnant,” Claire said to Denise. “You'll be into maternity dresses in a few weeks.”
“Yes, but how did you know?” Pete asked again.
“You men. You wouldn't recognize a pregnant woman if she gave birth in front of you.”
He grinned.
“And now I see what your Dad meant about you eating your ears.”
“Well you can talk.”
Her grin widened further. It was the first genuine smile she'd worn for the same length of time that Denise had been carrying her baby. “All we need to do now, is wait for your father and tell him the good news.”
“And play him that message from Sean,” Pete added.
“Well I'll tell you what, instead of pouring yourself a Bacardi, why don't you grab a couple of bottles of Dom Perignon '82 out of that cupboard, and put them in the fridge. They can be chilling while we wait for your Dad.”
* * *
Sandy pushed her sunglasses to the top of her head as she watched the gentle waves lapping onto the white coral beach. There had been no need to 'duck and dive' to reach The Cayman Islands - after all, nobody even knew that she was related to one of the dead bodies that she'd left on the floor of Tweedle's entrance hall. Even so, the journey had taken almost twenty hours, including waiting times at the airports. She'd been lucky at Manchester, slotting straight into a spare seat on a Miami-bound flight, but had spent an eternity at Miami International, waiting for the early morning flight to Grand Cayman.
It had been a novel experience to doze on an airport bench with her head resting on over four million pounds in sterling. The supple leather of the holdall had a cosy feel to it with all that money inside.
When, at last, she had registered at a tiny, inconspicuous hotel in Grand Cayman, she had asked the reception clerk if she could deposit the bag in the hotel safe. He had 'regretted to advise her that the hotel's own safe was not of adequate size, but that the island was not renowned for violence or
robberies'. Wishing her a safe and pleasant stay, he had gone about his business.
The bank had been the only solution. Why not? Why not put the extra four million with the other twenty-five that had been transferred the day before? She had showered and changed into lighter clothes, taken enough out of the holdall to see her through the next few days, then relieved herself of her worrisome load into the numbered account. It would all be transferred again tomorrow, but who cared? At least it would be safe overnight.
Now at ease and enjoying the afternoon sun, she perched on the barstool and sipped her Margarita. Life was going to be good to her from now on - no more dirty old men, no more morphine overdoses, no more black stockings and massage oils. Not unless she chose to, of course. Yes, indeed, at the tender age of twenty-six, she had her whole, worry-free life ahead of her.
She jumped as a harsh pair working hands covered her eyes. “Guess who?” asked a man's voice.
“Dad!” she said, peeling away his hands and smiling up at him. “I didn't think I'd see you until tomorrow.”
“Neither did I, girl,” he said, kissing her cheek. “Can an old man join an attractive young lady for a drink?”
“Too true. What are you having?”
“Well, I've become quite partial to a little concoction called a 'Scorpion' during the last few months.”
“The hell's that?”
“Rum, white wine, lemon juice, orange juice, Amaretto, gin and brandy.”
“Bloody hell. It's not quite the same as a pint of Manx Ale, is it.”
“Bit different, girl - but then our lifestyles can be a bit different from now on, can't they?” He beckoned the barman and sat next to Sandy. “It's good to see you again,” he said, as the barman moved away to prepare his drink. He looked around. “You gave Ron the slip then?”
“He er — met with a little accident just before we left,” she replied, with a cute smile.
“Oooh dear,” he said, in mock horror. “Tell me about it. Tell me what's happened to my poor half-brother.”
“It's a sad tale, Mr Ferris.”
* * *
William sat on the bed and stared at the shotgun. It was an old one that his brother had given him. He'd never used it. In fact he'd never used a gun in his life. He slid a cartridge into the breech and closed the stock. It was a hell of a time to find out how to shoot. He turned off the light at the side of the bed and closed his eyes - tight.
Damn the Tweedles to hell. No Nancy, no job, just solitary disgrace to look forward to. It wasn't much of a future. Perhaps Nancy had been right. Perhaps it was bloody stupid to let Ian have the letter and the money. But, ever since Nancy had told him who the third beneficiary was, William had not slept. Every time he found himself dozing off, his conscience would prick him and bring him back to his state or remorse.
He knew he'd had no option but to pass the envelope on. If Ian had been one of his school-day tormentors, he could have forgotten that he knew who the third beneficiary of Jack Tweedle's will was. If Ian had been Spaz or McGurk or Lurch, Doom or Spike, if he'd shunned him with the contempt and scorn and obnoxious personal insults that the other members of the in-crowd had heaped upon him, he could have ignored his ethical oath and still kept face with his reflection as he shaved each morning. But Ian had been a friend. Not a close, personal friend – he'd known none of those – but at least a friendly face amongst a sea of ill-breds. He'd already broken Ian's marriage; he couldn't bring himself to destroy his future as well. And so the deed was done. Ian would be reading the letter right at this moment. William had no intention of being around when the phone rang.
The school-day jibes had been more than enough. He'd thought all that was in the past – just a repulsive memory. He couldn't face it again. They would rejoice, the in-crowd, when they discovered that he'd been struck off and that his lover had deserted him. The name-calling would start again; in the streets this time. 'Hello, Worm, need a job?'. 'How ya doing, X-ray, screwed anyone's wife lately?' Oh no, no, no, he wasn't going to give them the satisfaction, them and their piss-in-the-bed wit. Those talentless, insensitive, discriminating, pathetic, thick-skinned, brutish, vegetable-brained, heartless cretins. They wouldn't get a second chance.
He placed the end of the barrel tight under his chin. “Shit!” he screamed, as he squeezed the trigger.
The blast was flat and loud in the darkened room.
* * *
The sun glinted on Sandy's long, dark hair as she sipped her drink. “Just think,” she said, “by this time tomorrow, we'll have emptied the account and the money will have disappeared without a trace.”
Nick Ferris checked his watch. “We can do it straight away if you want. We don't have to wait till tomorrow.”
“Why bother, Dad? I'm just nicely relaxed. Tomorrow's plenty soon enough. We've both got more than enough cash on us to settle the bar bill, even if you are drinking those things.”
“Scorpions.”
“ —those Scorpions, quicker than the barman can make them.”
The barman placed another glass of golden liquid in front of them.
“So what was the final total then?” Nick Ferris asked.
“About twenty nine million, with the four million that came from Tweedle's safe.”
He whistled. “What a tally. That four million's a nice bonus. Mind you, you've still not told me how you emptied the safe before Ron arrived?”
She crossed her legs and laughed. “While Tweedle was er — 'tied up' in the bedroom, I nipped down and took the money and the gun. If Uncle Ron had bothered to look, he'd have found the cash in a large cardboard box next to the safe. I didn't have time to find anywhere else to put it.”
“And you'd known the combination all along?”
“Ever since Tweedle first put the gun in the safe.”
“So what made you decide to eliminate Ron?”
Sandy stared out across the ocean to the faint but unmistakable curve of the horizon. For a moment she sat transfixed, the warm, gentle sea breeze blowing in her hair. When she spoke the laughter had gone from her voice. “Three reasons,” she said, in a hushed voice. “First, if I'd left Tweedle's body in the house alone, there would've been a murder hunt. They would've linked Uncle Ron's name to the death within minutes and that would've put us at risk as well. A little embezzlement is one thing but murder's quite a different ball game. As it is, the police may be suspicious but they'll have no option but to give an open verdict. I closed the safe again after I'd got rid of them both, so it didn't look like robbery was a motive. I also rinsed the gun in bleach so there was no DNA on it. Then I pushed it into Uncle Ron's hand. I don't think it will fool anybody for long, but at least there's no incriminating trace of me left behind.”
“What about in the bedroom?”
“So what? I had a relationship with Tweedle. That doesn't make me his killer.”
“Clever girl,” Ferris said. “So you think we're in the clear?”
“Totally. Nobody knew that either of us was related to Ron Scott.”
“Except the mother that Ron and I shared, and she's long since passed away, God rest her soul.”
“Yes, well talking of mothers passing away, that was actually the second reason for wasting Uncle Ron.”
“You still think he was involved then?”
“I'm about ninety percent certain,” she said. “Denise Tweedle wasn't the only one who checked through the old newspaper reports.”
“What makes you think that she suspected something?”
“Because I went to the newspaper offices one day and she was already there, reading the articles that I wanted to read.”
“Did she see you?” Ferris asked, concerned.
“Of course she saw me. But she'd have no way of knowing that I was her half sister. She doesn't even know I exist.” She watched as a large seagull swooped and grabbed at a remnant of food on the boardwalk. “You're not upset that I snuffed Ron then?”
Ferris shook his head. “Of course not,
girl. You're the only person I care about - always have been. Ron was good to me when we were kids but, if he did have something to do with your mother's death, then good riddance to him. I know that your Mum and I never got married and she went off messing around with the Tweedles, but that was her. She was just a very 'friendly' lady was our Moira.”
“Maybe that's where I get it from.”
They watched as the seagull swooped for another morsel.
“So what was the other reason?” Ferris asked.
“For what?”
“You said that your Mum's death was the second reason for wasting Ron. What was the third?”
“I don't think you want to know, Dad.”
“Tell me,” he said. “We've never had any secrets.”
“Oh yes we have. I was too young and too scared to tell you at the time —”
“What, Sand? You're not making sense.”
“I'm not sure I can, Dad. It's still painful — and embarrassing.” The horizon still seemed to interest her more than the conversation.
“Are you saying what I think you're saying?” Ferris asked, in a subdued voice.
“Don't know. What do you think I'm saying?”
“I think you're saying that your uncle, my half-brother, er — interfered with you when you were younger.”
“That's putting it very mildly,” Sandy said, bowing her head and closing her eyes. “The evil bastard screwed me mercilessly for years. Every opportunity he got. Your half brother - my Uncle Ron - abused me in every way it was possible to abuse a child. He told me once he was doing me a favour by training me for when I was older.”
“Bastard!” Ferris snapped, slamming his glass down on the counter. “If I'd known that, I'd have killed the little shit myself.”
Sandy looked up. “I know, and I wouldn't have had the pleasure of doing it. Buy me one of those Scorpions will you.”
Ferris beckoned to the barman. “Why didn't you say something at the time?” he asked.
“I didn't dare, Dad. I was only a kid. I felt dirty and guilty. I though maybe all men were the same. I thought you'd blame me. Uncle Ron told me that if I said anything to you he would kill both of us. I was scared. I just shrunk into a little world of my own. Later on, when I was old enough to understand what had happened and to say no, I teased the rotten bastard without mercy.”