by Tommy Dakar
an empty, half-finished pool. He knew that Sydney had died there, that a lot of things had changed forever there that day, but he would not be going back to that scene; he would give the whole area a wide berth. He had hoped that if he kept well away, always skirting the zone, keeping his back to it and his eyes averted, that maybe he would not disturb the demons of memory. It didn’t work. As he smoked he recalled his shock, his bewilderment, how he had swayed from foot to foot like an idiot, unable to say or do anything, or even feel anything other than a kind of dumb stupor. The hosepipe, the cable, Joe Stein’s brief, accusing glance. And Harvey, clutching the poor child to his chest. Could he have feigned that? No, not that part, he was not that cold, surely? It was the aftermath he had decided to change, by lying and scheming, laying the blame at somebody else’s door. Pet wailing, Andrea collapsed by the side of the pool. What a scene!
He shook his head as he felt the tears well up inside him. Now was not the time, not the time. He had work to do, and quick, before that bastard turned up with his flashy clothes and his smooth talk. He would turn his sadness into anger and be done with it once and for all. He stamped out the cigarette in a fury, snatched up the firearm and marched back to the fuse boxes.
Harvey was making good time. If he were honest he would admit that he had hurried his lunch and was pushing a little harder than usual through the traffic so that he could arrive ahead of his original schedule. He knew the reason for this haste – Haute House. It was true that he no longer lived there on a permanent basis, and that it was undeniably in need of a refurbishing and a paint job. He also had to agree that it was expensive to run, unwieldy and a bit of a stone around his neck in many respects. But it was his. The whole magnificent estate now belonged to Mr. and Mrs. Paulson. He never tired of entering those imposing gates, of leaping up the steps to the porch and its grand entrance. Those marvelously carved stairs, those beautiful rooms with huge windows looking out on to the immaculate grounds. There was a light, a unique, diffused light that he adored, and an air of grandeur, of history, and of success that still thrilled him. He would be early, not significantly so, but he should be able to clip twenty minutes or so off his eta. Time enough to get those beauties out on the forecourt and really warmed up, dust them off a bit, place them in a kind of semi-circle so that they would take the movie boys’ breath away when they saw them crouching in the evening sun like beasts about to pounce.
His driving became a touch more aggressive as he neared Langley. Not far to go now, the last stretch of Ocean Way and then he was back, back home at Chester Drive and the wrought iron HH. The only negative note was that he always had to visit alone; Andrea would not even hear mention of the place. Understandably. To her the mansion was like a mythical mermaid that lured you to the rocks with its crystal clear voice only to drag you down into the depths of the murky waters of death. Haute House was her perdition. She had lost her husband there, then Alice, and finally… Little wonder she refused to go back. At first he had insisted, had thought that it would be excellent therapy for her, face the ghosts and the like, but Andrea was not strong enough for such treatment, and now he left her to it. Right now she would probably be showing off her still remarkable figure on the terrace of some chic bar, or lying on a sun bed with her friends who would talk about the things that truly mattered to them: themselves and gossip. Well, as long as she was happy. In a way it suited him because it strengthened his opinion about the house; it was his, and his alone.
He swung around the last corner and approached the main gates. The whole street was bathed in a dappled and subtly tinted light that filtered through the summer leaves of ancient trees. The word venerable came to mind. Pulling up outside the main drive he took a deep breath. Here he was at last. Home. Then he reached for the remote which was in the glove compartment.
Ambrose checked his list of things to do one more time. He had the lights back on, which meant that the gates would swing open, and that the burglar alarm would now be back on. Now if Harvey entered the house he would have to quickly run to the alarm unit and switch it off before he had the whole neighbourhood calling the police. And if he threw a switch, no problem- lights! He had the gun, and it was loaded. He was in position and ready to act. All he needed now was for Harvey to show up.
With nothing better to do he went over Spotty’s instructions while he waited. He was to wait until Harvey came round to the garages. He was bound to do that eventually because that’s what he was there for, to get the cars ready. His man had phoned and set up the meeting, and Harvey had agreed, thinking he was in for some easy cash. He would go straight to the garages. If not, then he would do it once he had had a look round, but he was sure to go to get the cars in the end. That’s where Bro came in. He would march Harvey inside the garages and close the doors; that would help muffle the sound of the shots. Once inside, he had to get Harvey to sit in one of the cars. Not an open topped one, but a normal one, something he could close the door on and leave the body inside. That would minimize the blood and the noise. It was tidy. Contingency? Just kill the bastard anyway, anywhere. If he didn’t turn up at the garages, search him out and shoot him on the spot. No chit chat, just blast him away. Leave the weapon by the body. Wipe it! Then take Harvey’s car, it was bound to be worth a lot of money. He had to drive out of Langley and follow the back roads to an address that he had memorized. It was a clandestine garage. Here they would take care of the car, strip it down and paint it, new plates. There was a market for top range models, though not for the vintage cars that Harvey so loved; they were unique pieces and would be impossible to sell. But the a sports car or a four wheel drive was another matter. So he was to hand it over to a man called Bud, and he would get two thousand for it. This was the part of the plan that Bro didn’t like. Spotty always got very hazy when he mentioned Bud and the gang, he didn’t trust them and inch, that much was clear. Spotty warned Bro not to cause any fuss or haggle or be pushy in any way. These boys were mean types and if they refused to pay it was best not to insist. At least they would be getting rid of some vital evidence, so they were doing him a favour either way. So just leave the car anyway and get out of there. And disappear.
Ambrose didn’t have the nerve or the heart to tell Spotty that he couldn’t drive, that he had never been allowed near a vehicle other than to clean it or push it. Also he had no idea how to ‘disappear’. What was he supposed to do? Flee to another country? He didn’t even have a passport. Or any money come to that. Neither did he have anywhere to go. A murderer can’t exactly just turn up at his sister’s house and say hi.
He respected Spotty, and recognized his mental brilliance, but there were parts of the plan that he did not agree with, and could not carry out. He would have to keep that to his chest, and he was sorry, but there came a time when he realized, in his own sluggish way, that there were certain things he had to do his own way. Spotty had taught him that, so it was not betrayal or mistrust or anything reproachable. He sincerely thanked Spotty for all his help and guidance. It was just that he needed to think that this time he was not simply following instructions.
The gates swung open and Harvey pulled up at the front of the house. He was torn between two lovers. How he wanted to leap up those steps and enter the grand old house through the main entrance like the returning hero. Walking into that magnificent hall always slightly overawed him, even more so now that he was the sole owner. He would stand at the foot of those incredible stairs and feel the buzz of success and triumph pump through his whole system. It was like a drug, and he wanted his dose, wanted to wallow in it once more. But. Well, there was no-one there to see him, which took a bit of wind out of it, and it would no doubt look a little lackluster after being closed for so long, in need of a dusting and some fresh air. Anyway it could wait. The most urgent matter on his agenda was the cars. He had to get the new garage doors open and drive those motors out on the forecourt before his clients arrived. They often took quite a bit of starting, especially the Lancia, so he’d better not hang
about. Once he had them gleaming and in formation the deal should take a matter of minutes. Then he could take a leisurely stroll through the stately rooms of his prize possession.
Had he not been in such a hurry and decided to take a quick look round the house, he would have picked up the scent of a recently smoked cigarette. His senses heightened he may have noticed a meat carver lying on the small two-legged table to his left. He may have seen then that the double doors to the service area had been forced, from the inside. Warily, the trail would have led him to the kitchen area, and the smashed pane, the broken lock. Spotty’s plan would now be in need of the contingencies. If he had carried on and searched further he would have discovered that the glass gun cabinet had been raided, and his favourite shotgun stolen. Now on maximum alert he could have taken preventative action. He could have phoned the police on his mobile phone, or made a dash for his car and the main gates. He may even have decided to stand and fight for his hard earned privileges, and gone to the study to fetch his