Angels and Apostles

by Tony Hutchinson

  Again no one answered when he knocked, the room silent as a still-life.

  He completed a walk around the perimeter of the house. On the front drive was a Jaguar XJ6, an older model with windows frosted. A PNC check confirmed Jeremy Scott was the registered keeper.

  An old woman appeared by the fence next to the Jag. Her white hair perfectly complemented the frost, although her once white quilted dressing gown was now the colour of slush on a busy town centre road. ‘Can I help you?’

  Ed glanced at his wristwatch. Just gone 6am. He wasn’t expecting to see anybody so early

  ‘I’m trying to get in touch with Mr Scott.’

  ‘Are you family?’

  ‘Police.’

  Ed flashed his warrant card.

  ‘Is he alright?’

  ‘That’s what we’re trying to find out Mrs?’

  ‘Miss… Miss Cully. Jayne…with a ‘Y’. Is he in trouble?’

  ‘We’re just trying to locate him Miss Cully. Have you known Mr Scott long?’

  ‘We’re neighbours.’

  Ed made a show of stamping his feet and rubbing his hands.

  ‘Look it’s cold. Do you mind if I come into your house? Perhaps we can have a cup of tea.’

  ‘Tea? With a gentleman? That’ll be nice. Long time since I’ve had tea with a gentleman.’

  Jayne Cully turned and tottered back towards her side door, leaning heavily on a shiny black stick that was the straightest thing about her. Ed noticed one of her worn slippers was red and sheepskin-lined, the other black and plain.

  She was already at the kettle as he stepped into the kitchen.

  ‘So Miss Cully.’

  She shuffled around to face him with the speed of a jewellery box marionette on a drained battery, facial expression to match. ‘Who are you?’

  ‘I’m the policeman you were talking to outside.’

  Her face was vacant. ‘Policeman? Where’s Johnny?’

  Ed sighed and felt a jab of sadness and anger.

  Jayne-with-a-Y was clearly suffering from some type of dementia, another decent person left to fend for herself until she had to go into a home, the house in which she’d probably spent most of her life sold to pay for her care.

  Ed made himself a mental note...give everything away so when your time comes you’ve got no assets.

  ‘Do you know who lives next door Jayne?’

  ‘Mr Scott.’

  ‘On the other side of Mr Scott?’

  ‘The Greens.’

  ‘Thanks Jayne. I’ll pop round later.’

  He figured there was no point waiting for the tea. Jayne with a ‘Y’ was only making a cup for one.

  ‘Thanks for calling round,’ she told him. ‘I’ll tell Johnny you called.’

  Ed went back to his car and put on the radio. No point in going back to the nick but it was too early to knock on the neighbour’s door. He listened to the news. At least all those late night phone-ins with the world’s sad and lonely ringing for a chat had finished.

  He leaned back against the headrest and remembered an all-night static surveillance, where and when he wasn’t sure but long before the end he’d decided he’d rather tackle piles than listen to any more sob stories.

  It was just after 7am when he spotted movement in the Greens’ house.

  Ed walked up a gravel path even crunchier than Jeremy Scott’s and knocked on the door.

  ‘Mrs Green?’

  ‘Sorry, no,’ the woman, late middle-age, pearl buttoned cardigan over long patterned skirt, mousey short hair unflattering above a round plain face, was puzzled.

  ‘I’ve just been speaking to Jayne next door and she said...’

  ‘Ah, poor Jayne. Lovely lady. Is she alright?’

  ‘Yes she’s fine, Mrs?’

  ‘Lescott. Deborah Lescott. We bought this house off the Greens over twenty years ago. Jayne’s memory is going, bless her. Comes to all of us I suppose, everybody living longer. And you are?’

  ‘Ed Whelan. Detective Sergeant Whelan.’

  He produced his warrant card for the second time that morning. At least with criminals you rarely needed to show your ID; most already knew who you were and those who didn’t guessed in a heartbeat. Something about ‘the look’ was an instant give away.

  ‘It’s your neighbour Mr Scott I’m trying to locate. Does he live alone?’

  ‘He does,’ Deborah Lescott said with an edge. ‘Keeps himself to himself…unless he’s complaining about something.’

  ‘One of those is he?’

  ‘My late husband used to say he had a face that could curdle milk. Complained our bushes were too high, the barbecues were too smoky, cars were parked wrongly on the road. One of the most obnoxious men anyone could ever meet. Has something happened?’

  She sounded hopeful.

  ‘That’s what we’re trying to establish,’ Ed told her. ‘Is he married?’

  Deborah Lescott gave a condescending smile.

  ‘I don’t think marriage ever interested him. I don’t want to sound a gossip, but he was, well,’ she looked left and right, like a spy from a stage farce, and lowered her voice. ‘You know, camper than a row of tents.’

  Ed bit his lip and nodded. Imagine saying that at an in-house diversity course? A definite case of goodbye course, hello disciplinary hearing.

  ‘When did you last see him?’

  ‘A few days ago. Would you like a cup of tea Sergeant? I can put the kettle on. It’s too cold to be stood at the doorway, and if I can help?’

  ‘Thank you.’ Ed was in no doubt that she would get two cups out of the cupboard.

  He followed her down the hallway into the kitchen, mentioning Scott’s lights were on and his car was on the drive.

  ‘Could he have popped out?’ Ed asked.

  Deborah Lescott reached for the kettle with one hand and turned on the cold water tap with the other.

  ‘Possibly, but I haven’t seen him and I don’t think his car’s moved in a while.’

  ‘Is that unusual Mrs Lescott?’ Ed leaned against the units.

  ‘Please, it’s Debs. Yes it is now I come to think about it, but I just thought, well…you know…actually I haven’t given it a second thought until you asked. He wasn’t the type of neighbour you kept an eye on. A widow either side of him and he kept an eye on neither of us.’

  She dropped teabags into the cups.

  ‘Everybody else is quite friendly and I pop into Jayne’s when I have time, drop off a sponge cake or some scones.’

  ‘As a matter of interest, who’s Johnny? Jayne called me Johnny.’

  Debs poured boiling water into the cups.

  ‘I hope you don’t mind but it just seems easier than making a pot… Johnny? It’s her brother. He died years ago.’

  Ed took the cup Debs held towards him, his fingers burning before he could get it safely onto the worktop.

  Debs told him a home-help came to Jayne Cully’s twice a week and Ed made a note to ring social services. She might need more than that.

  ‘Has Mr Scott lived there long?’ he asked now.

  Debs took a quick sip of her tea.

  ‘Longer than us,’ she said. ‘He used to be a teacher at a boarding school in the south, so the Greens told us, but that was years ago.’

  She opened a cupboard door.

  ‘Biscuit?’

  ‘Lovely,’ Ed thanked her and asked about Scott’s family and friends.

  ‘I haven’t seen anyone calling,’ Debs told him. ‘I don’t know if that’s because he has no family or whether they have nothing to do with him. He really wasn’t a nice man. Always writing letters to the Seaton Post complaining about this and that, moaning about the council, local GPs, bus services, and of course, the police. That man must have filled the paper.’

  Ed said he knew the type, finished his tea, and thanked her.

  ‘If we need anything else we’ll be in touch,’ he said.

  Moments later he was back at Scott’s front door. He didn’t exp
ect a reply but knocked anyway before pushing down on the handle.

  Ed found the unlocked door swinging open onto a hallway colder than his wife’s shoulder. He shouted into the silence, at the same time glancing automatically for post on the floor. There was none. Ed walked to a door on his right, wood-stained to the point of being black, pushing it open and stepping into a living room where warmth replaced the hallway’s chill.

  Ed felt he had stumbled into the set of a television show from the seventies; the brown and gold swirled patterned carpet fighting the red velour settee for attention; a stacked music centre with a tape deck and radio tuner; a pre-remote-controlled TV set as deep as a wheelie bin. Hard-backed books filled the floor-to-ceiling bookcases and a polished black piano waited elegantly in the alcove next to the leaded bow window.

  Heat pumped out of a gas fire and on the windowsill was a letter rack holding opened utility bills. Ed flicked through them. No red letters, each in date order.

  He went into the kitchen. He had already seen the pie and tomato and was struck again by the care that had gone into the cutting. Now his eyes rested on a mug still full of tea or coffee. There was no sign of a struggle but it looked like Scott had left in a hurry.

  Upstairs, the main bedroom of three had a double bed, dark wooden wardrobe and a wicker basket full of dirty clothes. A gay porn magazine was on the table next to the bed. Ed flicked through it and shook his head. Each to their own.

  Back in the hall he saw a typed note on small table telling Scott he was the lucky winner of a TV but to Ed, the note looked amateurish. Nothing glossy, not even in colour, just a sheet of A4 pulled from a basic printer.

  The delivery date specified Thursday 11thth December. In that case, Ed wondered, where was the shiny new TV?

  Ed found a set of keys in a drawer in the same table and locked the front door behind him.

  ‘He got in the back of a van.’

  Ed looked over his shoulder. Jayne-with-a-Y was back at her fence.

  ‘Who did Jayne? Was it Johnny?’

  Jayne Cully’s eyes mocked him.

  ‘Don’t be silly, Johnny’s dead. No, I mean Mr Scott. I saw him walking down the path with a man then the man pushed Mr Scott into the back of the van.’

  Ed walked to the fence. ‘Was it a big van?’

  Her face turned blank and she looked straight through him.

  He waited then asked her again.

  Jayne Cully knitted her brows. ‘What van?’

  She turned around and shuffled slowly away.

  Chapter Six

  Sam’s fingers bashed away at the keyboard as she checked her inbox. Emails fell into three categories: reply, bin after a cursory look, or delete without opening.

  ‘I’ve got you a bacon sarnie,’ Ed said, walking into her office. ‘Not that you deserve it after leaving me with Curtis Brown.’

  He put the plate on her desk and sat down. ‘Extra crispy seems to be the order of the day...ha ha.’

  Sam opened the white baguette, peered at the pink rashers and translucent rind. ‘It looks disgusting.’

  ‘I know,’ Ed nodded, taking a bite of his own. ‘It tastes better than it looks, though. I got in the canteen early. Another hour under the lamps and it wouldn’t even be bacon anymore. This is the mouth-watering non-nuclear option.’

  ‘Cheers.’

  Sam pulled the rind off the bacon, spun her chair, threw the rind into the bin and put what was left of the bacon back in the bread. She bit into the sandwich.

  ‘You’re right,’ Sam said, chewing slowly. ‘Anyway, updates.’

  Ed brought her up to speed on his visit to Scott’s and the neighbours.

  ‘I’m going to check out the company who said he’d won a TV,’ Ed told her. ‘What time’s the PM?’

  ‘Half ten.’

  ‘No sweat. Oh by the way. Can you do me a favour? Get in touch with Vulnerable Adults. See if we can do anything for Jayne Cully. She needs more help than she seems to be getting and she’d be easy money for the rip off merchants. I’d hate to see her taken for a ride.’

  Back at his desk Ed examined the flyer.

  Congratulations Mr J Scott.

  You have won the annual Christmas Postcode Prize Draw.

  To claim your prize of a 52” Flat screen TV be at home between 4pm and 6pm on Thursday 11th December when one of our couriers will call. Please have proof of identification.

  Ed looked at the registered address for the company on the bottom of the page and noted the listed telephone number.

  A phone call to the Intelligence unit in Nottingham confirmed his suspicions...the area code was wrong; the trading estate didn’t exist.

  He walked into Sam’s office, waving the piece of paper like Neville Chamberlain at Heston Aerodrome in 1938.

  ‘This is fake.’ Ed said. ‘And it may have told us when Scott went missing.’

  Sam decided to add two questions to the door-to-door team’s list, one asking if anyone had seen a suspicious van in the area at any time over the last few days; the other if they had noticed any callers to Scott’s house.

  ‘I don’t want to be too specific about the TV,’ Sam said. ‘It might be a wild goose chase and I don’t want the door-to-doors concentrating on the TV at the exclusion of everything else.’

  She stood up and moved her plate onto the top of the filing cabinet.

  ‘Look at that,’ she grimaced at the pool of cold, grey fat. ‘My stomach’ll be all over the place.’

  ‘I know,’ Ed said. ‘It’s enough to convert you to Islam.’

  Sam’s eyes locked onto Ed’s, her look as cold as the grease on the plate.

  ‘Your mouth will really drop you in the shit one day,’ she told him. ‘You’ll say something in the wrong company.’

  Ed held up his hands.

  ‘It’s a one-liner, not a racist slur.’

  ‘And we all know the law,’ Sam was serious. ‘It’s not necessarily what you mean, it’s how others perceive it.’

  Ed’s shoulders dropped.

  What the hell has happened? How did we ever get to this?

  ‘I’m pleased I was a young lad when I was,’ Ed said, meaning it. ‘When you could have a laugh without somebody kicking off or stoking it up with Professional Standards.’

  Sam moved towards the door and reached for her coat.

  ‘Times change,’ she said. ‘Come on, it’s PM time.’

  Dean Silvers sat on a wooden bar stool drinking coffee, a white t-shirt tight around muscular tanned arms and head shaved clean above his huge neck. Dean loved three things in life...bling, his RS Focus, and himself, not necessarily in that order. Today was a big day, the day he decided it was time to move up from street dealer to major player.

  The barmaid was in early, cleaning last night’s mess, getting ready for opening time. She was another east European but he didn’t know her name; he couldn’t keep track of the staff these days.

  ‘I got a visit last night from Mat Skinner,’ Harry Pullman said, leaning over the bar, resting thick forearms with fading Fred Flintstone and Top Cat tattoos between the real ale pumps.

  ‘Accused me of skimming, the cheeky twat. I remember when he was just a snotty-nosed kid. God help us when he takes over from his old man.’

  He wiped his thick black-framed glasses with a bar towel.

  ‘Mat Skinner couldn’t run a bath,’ Dean said. ‘Luke will take over, provided they’re still in business.’

  ‘Keep your voice down,’ Harry’s whisper was snare drum tight. ‘These walls have ears and they’re not all friendly.’

  Harry adjusted his glasses. They looked tiny on his huge bulldog head.

  Dean watched the barmaid walk down the stairs behind the bar into the cellar. ‘How much does he know?’

  ‘Billy? Nothing really. I just need to be more careful.’

  ‘What pisses me off is that he takes all the rewards and none of the risks,’ Dean picked up his mug.

  ‘You planning a take-over?’ Harry a
sked, his tone teasing, almost taunting.

  Dean Silver looked over his shoulder and back at Harry Pullman.

  ‘You know his suppliers, the system for his distributors...’

  ‘Sounds like you’ve got it all sorted,’ Harry polished a pint glass. ‘One big problem though. Billy Skinner and the Apostles.’

  ‘Let’s just say they weren’t a problem anymore,’ Dean pushed. ‘Then what would you say?

  ‘Big market for whoever had the balls to take them on,’ Harry conceded. ‘But ask yourself why they’re still running the show? Then check what you’ve got in your Calvin’s.’

  Dean finished his coffee as Harry walked around to the punters’ side of the bar and joined him.

  ‘CID’s swarming around Bill O’Grady’s old garage,’ Harry said. ‘Found a body.’

  Dean Silver’s arms grew tense, the muscles twitching.

  ‘That fucker Curtis Brown better not drop me in it.’

  ‘Forget that little smackhead,’ Harry said. ‘One word and it’ll be his last.’

  John Elgin sighed at the sink full of dirty dishes, food stains, crumbs and empty packaging covering the benches, the air coated with the stale smell of cigarettes. Twenty-odd years ago this kitchen was show-house new, chrome fittings gleaming, sink sparkling. Now, like his wife, it was an unloved, shabby wreck.

  He sponged his pink tie and patted his shrinking stomach - the high cholesterol warning had sparked a low fat diet and lower lager intake. He opened the grubby fridge and saw more stains than food...half a bottle of rose wine, a piece of mouldy cheddar harder than concrete. He took out his yoghurt and blueberries.

  Two more empty wine bottles by the door told him his bloated wife would be in bed until noon. Thank God for Pussycats. Thank God for…what did they call them?’

  He conjured up an image of the two lithe young women and smiled. What were their names? He nodded when he remembered. Zara and Chloe.

  He spooned the yoghurt into his mouth and contemplated another visit to Pussycats tonight. Billy Skinner was always a good host.